The Blerediths of Redmond College
by elizasky
Summary: The Blythes of Kingsport and the Merediths of Glen St. Mary have never met. At least not until Providence works its wonders through the Redmond Housing Office. A modern AU adaptation of Anne of Ingleside, Rainbow Valley, and Rilla of Ingleside.
1. Joy of Ingleside

**Joy of Ingleside**

* * *

Ingleside

Kingsport, Nova Scotia

September 2016

* * *

Ingleside was silent as Joy Blythe whispered down the wide, parquet-floored corridor toward the kitchen. Past the office where her father's many diplomas and awards tested the limits of the built-in bookcase, past the spacious library with its glorious two-story windows beginning to glow rosy in the dawn, and through the soaring entrance hall where Nan and Di had assembled enough luggage and furniture to outfit an entire dorm. Joy noted with approval that they were taking along one of Grandmother Marilla's braided rugs, though the various furry, sequined, and zebra-stripe pillows suggested that their domestic decor would be . . . _eclectic_. She only hoped their new roommate would have a sense of humor about it.

Joy turned the corner, skimming past the living room and the vast fireplace that Mum and Dad had kept intact even as they renovated and expanded the rest of the house. Mum believed that _too old houses are sad_ and _too young houses are crude_, so they had aimed for the best of both, incorporating bits of Ingleside's original architecture where they could. They re-installed the moulding on the new ceilings, re-framed the original stained glass sidelights on wider doors, and used the salvaged balusters as uprights for the library bookcases when they took out the stairs. As a result, Ingleside did not feel quite as new as it was, always retaining the flavor of the older house while providing every modern convenience to the inhabitants.

As she passed the dining room, Joy realized that she was not, in fact, the only person awake. The dulcet tones of Josh Groban crooning from the kitchen could only mean that Susan had her own ideas about breakfast on this most important of mornings. Joy rolled to a stop in the doorway to watch the tight gray bun bob along as Susan sprinkled cinnamon over a rectangle of dough on the marble-top island. When she joined the choir in their ecstatic _You raise me up_, Joy gave herself away with a fond chuckle.

"Now, there's the real secret to your cinnamon rolls," Joy said, smiling as she glided into the room. "I never realized they needed encouragement as well as yeast."

"A little inspiration never goes amiss," Susan sniffed. "How are you feeling this morning, dearie?"

Joy waved away the perpetual question. "You must have gotten up very early if that dough's already had time to rise once."

"Indeed I did not. Shirley started it."

"_Susan_." Joy put a note of reproach in the name, but it was still a moment before Susan realized her mistake.

"Oh!" She sighed in exasperation. "_John_. _John_ started it. It's just so hard to get used to a change like that at my age."

Joy was not unsympathetic. She still caught John's old name on the tip of her own tongue several times a week, but they'd had all summer to practice.

"I know you're doing your best," Joy said gently. "But he wouldn't ask if it wasn't important."

"At least John is a good, Christian name," Susan said grimly as she rolled the dough into a tight spiral. "Young people come up with all sorts of odd things these days. But John is a name that will wear well in the washing."

"Where is he, anyway?"

"Running, of course."

Of course. How very silly to think that a little thing like starting his freshman year at Redmond would cause John to alter his routine even for a day. Perhaps that's why the announcement of his name change on his 18th birthday still felt like a surprise five months later. John wasn't one to try on new names like Di experimented with hair colors or Walter with poetic forms. He had probably been planning the change for years.

When Susan had set her cinnamon rolls in the pan to proof again, she began to chop green onions and chilies. Joy settled herself in the little nook beside the squashy armchair under the windows, looking out past the mudroom, over the circular driveway, and to the vibrant late-summer garden beyond. Dr. Jekyll was perched primly along the back of the armchair, his orange bottlebrush tail twitching as he watched a pair of cardinals flit tantalizingly from one bird feeder to another. He paid Joy no mind and she made no move to disturb his entertainment.

Instead, Joy turned her attention to the music. No one could persuade Susan to give up the portable CD player she carried back and forth from her cottage to the kitchen, but the rest of them were connected to the house Sonos system through their phones. Dad took great pleasure in demonstrating its powers to visitors, particularly at the annual Christmas party, when Ingleside was thrown open to friends, colleagues, and neighbors. _But the doctor had no power over Susan's little_ CD player, which got along perfectly well without wifi.*

Joy scrolled through her playlists, looking for something upbeat that wouldn't make Susan glare at her, but before she could settle on something mutually agreeable, her attention was redirected by the slamming of a car door in the driveway. She looked up to see a jet-black SUV and a bobbing crown of carrot-colored curls peeking over the roof. A moment later, a tall form bounded up the back ramp and through the mudroom like a loose-limbed puppy, letting the kitchen door bang against the wall when he opened it.

"Jem!" Joy squealed, flinging her arms wide for a hug.

Her brother obliged, depositing a flimsy cardboard box and a bouquet on the island and bending to embrace her. He had inherited Dad's long, strong arms, the sort that seemed made for lifeguarding and giving the very best hugs. How Joy had missed him this past year, and how good it was to have him home and safe at last. Text messages and FaceTime were all very well, but Joy was relieved that he'd decided to come back to Kingsport for medical school after all. He'd been back more than two weeks, visiting Ingleside practically every day, but it still felt like a treat to see him.

"Take a first day of school selfie with me?" Jem asked, producing his phone and crouching down beside her. Joy gave a thumbs up and grinned as he snapped the photo.

"When do your classes really start?" Joy asked as he tapped away on his screen.

"Orientation starts tomorrow and then classes on Tuesday."

They were interrupted by a pointed cough from Susan.

"Susan! Good morning!"

"Jem. Shoes, please."

"Oh, sorry!" Jem said, backtracking to the mudroom to take off his shoes. He rummaged for a pair of Dad's house slippers and reemerged with a sheepish smile and a hug for Susan as well. "Sorry. I've gotten out of the habit."

Joy took the opportunity to investigate the box, which contained a very acceptable quantity of blueberry fritters.

"You're up early," she observed as Jem handed her a plate.

"Had to be," Jem smirked. "_Rescue Ducks_ is on at 6:30 and you know I never miss an episode."

Joy rolled her eyes. "Please, _no_. It's Saturday and I absolutely refuse to think about those pestilential little birds when I'm not on the clock."

"I love it!" Jem teased, rummaging in the cupboard for a vase. "This morning, Drake and Mallard had had some sort of run-in with a surly beaver. Though someday you'll have to explain to me why they need to wear lifejackets in the water. They are _ducks_, after all."

Joy groaned. How many pitched battles had she fought over the inscrutable laws of the _Rescue Ducks_ universe? The other writers barely seemed to care about continuity, let alone basic logic. All they cared about was dashing off scripts that got past Higginson's not-very-exacting standards. No one else was bothered over the nonsensical decision to color Lucky bright pink when all the other Rescue Ducks had stylized-but-realistic plumage, nor that Mack wore a full slicker and sou'wester when he was obviously a _duck_ and thus already impervious to wet, nor that Canard . . .

"I always watch til the end so I can see your name in the credits," Jem continued without mercy.

Joy was spared the necessity of replying by the timely arrival of Dad. It was odd to have him home on a Saturday morning, but he must have made arrangements with Dr. Wilson to cover for him. After all, the first day of school came but once a year.

"We weren't expecting you so early," Dad said, giving Jem a hearty slap on the back. "Hope you aren't giving your sister a hard time."

"Never," Jem agreed, winking at Joy.

"_Rescue Ducks_ is on Netflix now, you know," Dad said as he filled the coffee pot, hazel eyes twinkling with real pride, even as Joy squirmed. Dad maintained that there was nothing unworthy or ridiculous in earning an honest penny by writing for a hit show.** It was a very sensible position, but Joy could not reconcile herself to it. Luckily, Mother was more sympathetic to the indignity and they had had many long and reassuring talks about the difference between writing for the sake of one's bank account rather than the state of one's soul. _Rescue Ducks_ let Joy save up her own money and keep a flexible schedule with plenty of time to work on other writing. She really couldn't complain. But oh, those blasted lifejackets!

When Susan assured them that it would still be an hour til breakfast, Jem and Dad went to carry the twins' belongings out to Jem's car with much discussion of futons and bungee cords and roof racks. Joy wiped her sugary fingers on a dish towel and turned once more to the question of music, but got no further than she had before.

The mudroom door clattered open again, admitting a rosy-cheeked John, brown hair disheveled and sweaty from his run. Joy watched through the kitchen windows as he exchanged his sneakers for house slippers, marveling as she often did these days that her littlest brother was all grown up. She could easily remember the tiny baby her parents had brought home after so many arduous weeks in the NICU, and suddenly felt older than twenty-five has any right to feel.

John came in through the kitchen door, nodding a silent greeting toward his sister before taking his place at Susan's side. If anybody else had leaned over the counter to nick bits of Spam out from under her knife, Susan would have told them off in a hurry, but she only smiled at John and nudged a larger piece in his direction. He was her own darling boy, after all, and he was leaving. Redmond might only be a ten-minute drive across Kingsport, but it was still a change, and Joy had not doubt that Susan felt it keenly.

Joy did not grudge them their closeness. She loved Susan, of course, but had never been able to enjoy the voluntary bond that attached John and Susan in mutual affection. Now that she was an adult, Joy appreciated Susan more than she ever had as a resentful teenager, but that had quite a lot to do with the fact that Susan had retired when Joy graduated from Redmond, and no longer worked as her personal aide.

These days, Susan spent her time tending her calceolarias or teaching John the secret to shiny-shelled macarons, at least when she wasn't at church. There had been many homes open to Susan when she retired — she had standing offers from her sister Matilda, her niece Gladys, and her Cousin Sophia — but she had elected to stay in the little garden cottage she had occupied for the past two decades. There was always a cup of tea and sympathy there for the Blythe children, and Susan still joined them for festive occasions. After all, it was a different thing altogether to associate out of pleasure than necessity.

"Have you already packed the car?" Susan asked, opening the top half of the double oven and popping in the pan of cinnamon rolls.

"Yes," John assured her patiently.

"You have your skates?"

"Yes."

"And your paperwork?"

"Yes."

"I have this for you." Susan retrieved a pretty tin from the counter and presented it to him without ceremony.

Joy craned her neck to see what might be inside, catching only the briefest glimpse of delicate tea cookies in shades of green and pink and goldenrod before John replaced the lid.

"감사합니다," he said, flustering Susan when he bent to kiss her cheek. "They're exactly the Susan brand."***

She shooed him out of the kitchen with orders to take a shower, looking pleased despite herself. Joy's conscience gave a pang; over all the years she and Susan had spent together, Joy had never learned more than a few simple words in Korean. But again, their relationship had been professional, where John regarded Susan almost as a second mother. He had even accompanied her to the Korean Church on occasion in his childhood, which was an honor never bestowed on any of the other Blythes.

"Are you going to Bible Study later?" Joy asked, making an effort to show interest.

Susan cracked eggs into a bowl. "Yes, and I am staying to lunch with Cousin Sophia afterward, so you will be alone with Rilla. Can you manage?"

"Rilla's sixteen, Susan. She hardly needs a babysitter."

"Who needs a babysitter?" This from Mum, who had floated into the kitchen that very moment in black cigarette pants and green top embellished with an oversized pin proclaiming "PROUD REDMOND PARENT, CLASS OF 2020" that was sure to delight John.

"No one at all," Joy said emphatically as she accepted a greeting kiss. "I think you may rest assured that Ingleside is quite safe from the patter of little feet for the foreseeable future."

"Ah, but the future is never foreseeable, is it?" Mum laughed.

"Indeed it is not, Mrs. Dr. dear," Susan agreed.

Mum admired the flowers Jem had brought, then tied on an apron and inquired after the most useful employment. Susan directed her to concoct a fruit salad, which she was still doing when Nan and Di appeared in the doorway.

"Something smells wonderful," Nan proclaimed. "How can we help?"

"You'd better go look after your luggage," Joy advised them. "I think Jem's tying things to the roof of his car."

Nan peered through the kitchen windows and gave a little yelp, hurrying out through the mudroom to intervene before catastrophe befell them all. Di, unconcerned, helped herself to a blueberry fritter. The pastry was nowhere near as brilliant as her hair, which her stylist had done in a striking ombre pixie, indigo on the undercut and moving through royal blue and sky to the frost-spiked tips.

"Will you and Nan be alright with just Jem to help you move in?" Mum asked. "Dad and I can come over after we get your brother settled. We'd love to meet your roommate."

"We'll be fine," Di assured her through a mouthful of doughnut. "Besides, we're not expecting Faith til the afternoon, so no sense waiting around. I'm sure you'll meet her sooner or later."

"Has Nan met her?" Joy asked.

Di shrugged. "She's seen her around campus. And we've FaceTimed with her a couple of times this past week. It'll be fine."

Joy shot a skeptical look toward her mother, only to see it mirrored back to her in matching gray-green eyes. Bringing in an unknown roommate at the last moment was hardly a recipe for domestic tranquility. But Persis Ford had left the twins in the lurch by accepting a place off the waitlist for a year abroad in Milan, and there had been quite a scramble to keep their plum three-person suite at Cooper Hall.

"Remind me again how you know this girl?" Mum said with one copper brow arched.

Di leaned against the island and licked sugar from her fingers. "She's on the basketball team with Ariana. I've met her a few times at team parties. Her suite fell apart because the other two girls had a blow-out fight over the summer and aren't speaking anymore. Housing said they'd find us a third when Persis left, but Ari knew Faith was looking for a room and that's that."

"And you and Ariana are on good terms?"

"Mum, we broke up like a year ago. It's fine. Don't worry so much."

Mum did not look convinced, but there wasn't a lot to be done at this point. Joy supposed that this unknown Faith could hardly be worse than Nan's freshman roommate, who couldn't get it through her head that yes, _nut allergy_ included peanut butter and no, it was not safe to consume the stuff morning, noon, and night in a room where Nan was soon afraid to touch any surface. Well, if it came to it, Dad could pay another visit to the Housing Office; Joy doubted that two years was enough time for the staff to have forgotten him.

The cinnamon rolls were beginning to smell a good deal like cinnamon rolls. Susan arranged ovals of rolled omelette on a platter and handed a plate to Di to display the remaining doughnuts. These were carried out to the dining room with due reverence and the table set with china rather than the ordinary dishes. It was a silly little tradition, treating the first day of school as if it were a minor holiday. Still, Joy could remember these breakfasts all the way back to the day she started kindergarten. She had had new pink glasses, and remembered Mum and Dad each holding one of the newborn twins as Jem scarfed down waffles and Walter examined the minute details of his new velcro shoes. There would only be a few more like it, what with John off to college and Rilla's sophomore year of high school starting next week.

"RILLA!" Someone had evidently asked Di to rouse the youngest Blythe, which she had decided to do with volume rather than proximity. "RILLA! Breakfast's on! Wake up!"

Instead, she summoned only a fresh-scrubbed John, who took his place at the table in silence, though the dirty look he threw in Di's direction said plainly enough that he wished she'd stop screaming. The others trooped in from out of doors, Nan and Jem arguing the finer points of bungee etiquette while Dad helped Susan carry in the coffee and juice. When Rilla did not appear, Mum went to fetch her, leaving the rest of the family to fill their plates and start without them.

Before the first forkful could be eaten, a tinny fanfare from the head of the table interrupted the general clatter of plates and cutlery.

"No phones at the table!" Jem and Di chorused as one.

"I know, I know!" Dad said, smiling down at his phone. "But I think you'll want me to take this one."

He accepted the call, then turned in his seat so they could all see the smiling, gray-eyed face on the screen.

"Walter!"

There was a general uproar as various Blythes clamored for a better look. Walter beamed under a knitted beanie, his black hair grown long enough to peek out from under the band and his finely modeled nose slightly sunburnt.

"Happy first day of school!" he waved. "I think I got the time right, didn't I?"

"Perfect," Di assured him. "We were just sitting down to breakfast."

"Where are you?" Jem asked.

"Kathmandu. I got in yesterday and have a few days to see the sights before the retreat starts."

Nan rested her elbows on the table and leaned closer. "How long will you be gone?"

"A month or so. We'll be trekking through the Himalayas from one monastery to another and then doing meditation retreats at each. No cell phone, no internet. It's glorious!"

Joy stifled a little snort. It was slightly difficult to reconcile Walter's professed Luddite ideals with the carefully curated Instagram account that documented every dew-dappled blossom and artfully distressed tile floor he had encountered during his travels this summer. Every once in a while, he'd drop in a quotation from Yeats or Kerouac for variety. It was at least as embarrassing as the damned _Rescue Ducks_, though no one else seemed to notice.

Mum came in, trailing a bleary-eyed Rilla in camisole and fuzzy slippers.

"Walter!" Rilla exclaimed, waking up all at once. She took the phone from Dad, tucking a ruddy-brown curl behind her ear and asking earnestly after the details of Walter's recent travels. Mum followed on with raptures about the view visible in the background while the others chewed as quietly as possible. Joy allowed Jem to pour her a glass of juice and nibbled a slice of omelette until Rilla passed the phone to Susan.

"Hi, Susan!" Walter beamed. "And hi, Joy!"

"Silent retreat, eh?" Joy asked. "Are you allowed to do any writing?"

"Nope. I can't even bring a notebook. It's all about mindfulness. Getting rid of distractions. Noticing small things."

"And prayer?" Susan inquired.

"Of course," he agreed. "I'm really looking forward to the spiritual aspects of the practice."

Joy forced a smile as she took the phone. "It sounds very . . . peaceful."

"I hope so," Walter nodded. "And how are things with you? Cartoon still going well?"

"Swimmingly."

"Making any progress on your novel?"

"Uhhh . . ."

Jem flew to Joy's aid by flinging an arm around her shoulder and turned the full wattage of the Blythe grin toward his brother. "Hey, Walt! You have proper hiking gear, right?"

Joy gladly surrendered the phone to a discussion of socks and thermal layers, feeling annoyed at her own annoyance. It was a perfectly ordinary question, but it grated all the same. Surely another writer should understand, shouldn't he? But no, Walter was irritatingly prolific for someone who claimed not really to write but merely to serve as a vessel for the muse. Some of his stuff wasn't half bad either, which only doubled Joy's irritation.

When Walter had provided satisfactory answers to Jem's quizzing, he finished his rounds, asking the twins to say hello to mutual friends and wishing John luck at Redmond. Then, with a final wave and a promise to Mum and Dad that he would call or write sometime before Thanksgiving, Walter blinked out of existence.

"I hope he ends up enjoying himself," Di said as she munched a cinnamon roll. "A month's an awfully long time to be stuck there if he doesn't."

Nan poured herself another cup of coffee. "I think he's more in danger of being over-inspired. All that natural beauty and no notebook to write it down!"

"I just hope he packs lighter than the two of you," Jem smirked. "It's like a Griswold family vacation out there."

The twins protested that packing two people's belongings into a single SUV was the very definition of economy.

"Really?" Jem teased. "I'll bet you dollars to donuts that the two of you have packed four times as much as Sh . . . John."

Joy flicked her gaze toward John, wondering if he had heard the slip. If he had, he did not react to it, eyes riveted to his plate as he ate his eggs.

Mum covered the awkward moment by chiming a spoon against her teacup.

"Another First Day of School!" she said, smiling around the table at them all. "I had planned to make an excellent speech about _mutual help and earnest striving after knowledge_, but I'm afraid I can't remember a word of it.**** Instead, I will only say that I'm so very proud of you all and hope that you will have the most delightful year, full of fun and friends and maybe a leetle studying."

"Hear, hear!" Dad agreed, raising his coffee in salute.

*/*/*

When they had cleared the dishes and finished the packing and hugged their various goodbyes, the Redmond-bound Blythes piled into their vehicles. Joy waved farewell from the veranda, watching the cars until they disappeared around a leafy bend in the road.

Susan checked her watch. "Cousin Sophia will be waiting for me. Are you sure you girls are alright on your own?"

"We'll be fine Susan," Joy said through gritted teeth. "Anyway, I think Rilla's headed back to bed."

"Good idea," Rilla yawned.

Susan frowned, but did not scold. She checked her handbag for her Bible and the most recent issue of _Horizons_ — "The Magazine for Presbyterian Women!" — which bristled with pastel post-it flags. Then she waved goodbye and freed the Blythe girls to improve the day as they saw fit.

When Susan and Rilla had both gone, Joy skimmed down the hall to the library, sliding the faux-French doors shut behind her with a sigh of relief.

Alone at last.

She wheeled past the plush sofa and book-lined walls to the desk tucked beneath the soaring windows. No ducks today. She had a session with Sylvia at 3:00, but until then, the day was full of nothing except possibility.

She opened her laptop. _No distractions_, she thought, closing her email and Twitter. She hesitated over the iMessage box that ran perpetually at the left side of her screen, seeing that Jem had already sent their selfie to the family chat thread, his red curls exuberant next to her sleek brown plait. She'd check in later. But for now, she closed that, too.

Then Joy created a new Scrivener document and stared at the blinking cursor.

* * *

Notes:

* "The doctor, quite unmoved, responded that the law must be observed, and the Ingleside clocks were moved on accordingly. But the doctor had no power over Susan's little alarm.  
"I bought that with my own money, Mrs. Dr. dear," she said firmly, "and it shall go on God's time and not Borden's time."  
Susan got up and went to bed by "God's time," and regulated her own goings and comings by it. She served the meals, under protest, by Borden's time, and she had to go to church by it, which was the crowning injury. But she said her prayers by her own clock, and fed the hens by it; so that there was always a furtive triumph in her eye when she looked at the doctor. She had got the better of him by so much at least." _Rilla of Ingleside_, Chapter 30: "The Turning of the Tide"

**"The Reds will think just as I thought—that you, being like nine out of ten of us, not overburdened with worldly wealth, had taken this way of earning an honest penny to help yourself through the year. I don't see that there's anything low or unworthy about that, or anything ridiculous either. One would rather write masterpieces of literature no doubt—but meanwhile board and tuition fees have to be paid." _Anne of the Island_, Chapter 15, "A Dream Turned Upside Down"

***감사합니다, (gamsahamnida): thank you (respectfully). (Though if anyone who speaks fluent Korean wants to beta read, please let me know!)

****_Anne of Avonlea_, Chapter 5: "A Full-fledged Schoolma'am"

* * *

Hello, all! After spending a long time on the WWI and WWII stories, I thought it would be fun to do something lighter. This is a modern AU adaptation of _Anne of Ingleside_, _Rainbow Valley_, and parts of _Rilla of Ingleside_. I'm not saying it will be all puppies and rainbows 100% of the time, but I'm going for TV dramedy, not a war story.

A word about organization: this story is organized into "seasons" like a TV show. Season 1 will cover the Fall 2016 semester. After that, I'll take a break and if I'm still having fun, I'll write Season 2. I'm hoping that breaking it up that way will be good for my stamina, my publishing schedule, and making the structure of the story clearer. My intention is to publish on Fridays.


	2. The Manse Children

**The Manse Children**

* * *

Glen St. Mary, PEI

September 2016

* * *

"Ouch!" Faith Meredith bit down hard, stifling the more colorful exclamations that sprung to the the tip of her tongue when she tripped over a plastic guitar in the middle of the hallway. The offending instrument added insult to injury by springing to life with blinking lights and a chorus of "Polly Wolly Doodle" in an impossible key. Faith relieved her feelings by kicking it across the floor, only to stub her toe again and let fly a few choice words after all.

Faith did try to put a damper on her vocabulary whenever she came home to Glen St. Mary, lest any spiteful old cats should shake their heads over her shocking manners. Not that they didn't anyway. Just yesterday, Faith had run into Mrs. Alec Davis in the frozen food aisle at Flagg's Market. Mrs. Davis had looked her over, scowling at her scarlet Redmond Women's Basketball sweatpants and the messy bun that only partially constrained her golden-brown curls.

"You were such a pretty child," Mrs. Davis said regretfully.

Over the years, Faith had learned to endure such comments with somewhat more tact than she had exhibited in bygone days. There were always people who seemed determined to _prick the rainbow bubble of her satisfaction_ by dutifully informing her that she would never find a man if she didn't put in a bit more effort. Others took a contrary tack, sighing that they were _afraid people wouldn't have much confidence_ in a sweet-faced young doctor.* Most of them didn't even mean to be cruel, but they stumbled into it just the same.

Faith could generally save up her retorts to fuel a long, hard run, but she had thought herself quite alone in the matter of the hazardous guitar. Too late, she realized that four cherubic little faces were watching her from the living room, round-eyed with wonder.

"Whoooops!" she said, smiling apologetically and readjusting the bulging duffel bag on her shoulder.

Una came hurrying out of the kitchen, a freshly mixed bottle in her hand and little tow-headed Elliott Vance balanced on her hip.

"Are you alright, Faith?" she asked over the racket of the guitar.

"Fine," Faith grimaced. "Sorry. I tripped. Couldn't see around the bag."

Una gave a steadfast nod, though there was more than a little sorrow in the dark blue eyes. They had stayed up talking things over last night, though Faith was still uneasy about leaving her sister behind.

"I'll call every day," Faith had promised, clasping a slim white hand as they huddled together under the quilts.

"You can't call _every_ day, Faith," Una had said reasonably. "You'll have a hundred things to do. I wouldn't want to be an obligation to you."

"Never," Faith assured her, though she knew that Una was perfectly right. Redmond was all hustle and hurry, with new faces and experiences crammed into every minute of every day. There was rarely a spare minute between basketball practices and chemistry labs and as many shifts at Food Services as she could manage. Faith gloried in the challenge of all that get-up-and-go, but Una had been miserable in Kingsport and hadn't even lasted a full semester. Faith believed her when she said that she was genuinely happier here in the Glen, where she could teach Sunday school and give piano lessons and help Rosemary run the daycare. But she still felt sorry over it, especially since she and Jerry were taking Carl away with them this year.

Una wiped wee Elliott's nose and set him down on the living room floor between two of Bruce's kittens. It took a minute to find the TV remote under a toppled cushion and a few more to meet the demands of her young charges, who all clamored for their favorite show.

_Rescue Ducks! Rescue Ducks! By land or sea or aaaair, the Rescue Ducks are therrrre_ . . .

The children were soon entranced enough for Una to venture onto the porch, keeping the front door open to maintain a supervisory eye over the living room. Faith followed and was met on the steps by Carl, who had evidently been coming to fetch her. He wore the Redmond hoodie that Aunt Ellen and Uncle Norman had bought him as a graduation present, which he had refused to endanger by wearing until today.

"Anything left to pack?" he asked, face shining with anticipation. "Jerry's getting antsy."

"This is the last bag," Faith assured him.

Carl eyed the duffel skeptically. "The car's already pretty full . . ."

"Oh, we'll cram it in somewhere," Faith said comfortably. "You ready to go?"

"Yep!"

Faith suspected that the only thing keeping Carl from flying to the rooftop and crowing was his solicitude for Una. It had been a long wait, she knew, and harder these past few years without her and Jerry to look out for him at school. But Carl had kept his head down, disappearing as much as possible into his schoolwork and getting grades good enough to enroll at Redmond, in spite of everything. Now that the day had come to leave the Glen at last, he was glowing from the tips of his ruby-red high tops to the crown of his golden-brown head, however much he might be trying to spare the feelings of others.

The effort was largely wasted. Una remained pale and quiet, while Rosemary watched the preparations for departure with a fond resignation that showed just how much she had loved having them all home for the summer. Bruce, vibrating with anxious energy, was hovering beside Jerry, peppering him with questions as Jerry shifted the bags and boxes crammed into the back of his ancient Subaru station wagon.

"How long is the drive to Kingsport?"

"About four and a half hours, but we'll have to stop for lunch and gas, so closer to six if there's no traffic."

"Is law school harder than regular college?"

"I expect it will be."

"Are you going to share a room with Carl?"

"No. I have my own room at the law school and Carl will have a roommate his own age."

"Who is it?"

"I don't know."

"Did Father and Mum give Carl his present yet?"

This last prompted Jerry to hush Bruce sharply, but too late.

"Present?" Carl said, turning toward his brothers with a grin.

"I sent your father to fetch it ages ago," Rosemary sighed. "Where can he have gone?"

"I'll get him!" Bruce called, eager to restore himself to Jerry's good graces. He pushed past Faith and Una, disappearing into the house and calling, "Father! Father! Carl needs his present!"

Really, Father could be anywhere, Faith thought as she lugged her bag down the steps and toward Jerry's car. Perhaps he had gotten an idea for tomorrow's sermon and paused to jot it down, or perhaps a book had called to him for just a brief peek, or perhaps he had simply forgotten his errand entirely. If her earlier cursing hadn't roused him, she doubted Bruce's shouts would.

"And where, exactly, am I supposed to put _that?_" Jerry asked, scowling at Faith's overstuffed duffel. He wore a blue Oxford button-down, as if he meant to go directly from the driver's seat to his first class, and crossed his arms over the front of it with the resolute expression that had made Faith start calling him "Judge Meredith" when they were still children.**

"Right there," she said, pointing to a space that wasn't half big enough for the bag.

"I won't be able to see out the back!"

"Sure you will. If we just jimmy these boxes a little . . ."

"Careful!"

Faith grunted when the box under her hand did not budge. "Do you really need so many books?"

"Yes, the law school does encourage reading."

"And they don't have a library?"

They might have bickered longer, had not Bruce and Father appeared on the porch. Faith shoved her bag into the too-small spot and hurried after Jerry, not wanting to miss anything. She was glad to see that Father had found the gift after all, though she was surprised to see it looking so rumpled. Rosemary had wrapped it beautifully last night, adding a bow and ribbon curls in Redmond colors, but Father had obviously reopened it and had not known how to restore it to its former glory.

Carl did not seem to mind. As the family gathered round, he tore through the silver paper with gusto, then gasped.

"You can't go off to college with that junky old phone," Jerry said importantly. Well, there was no grudging him a little pride. After all, he was the one who had done all the research on the different iPhone models, comparing specs and prices and data plans. Faith and Una had insisted that it must be rose gold, and Rosemary had advised them only to shop with reputable stores, but it was Jerry who had finally found what they wanted. Faith and Una had chipped in for the phone itself and Father and Rosemary had upgraded the family data plan to accommodate it. Well worth it, from the look on Carl's face.

Speechless, he lifted the phone out of its box and cradled it reverently.

"Do you . . . like it?" Una asked uncertainly.

It took Carl a moment to answer. "It's perfect," he choked.

"Not quite," Faith chuckled. "Jerry was in charge of loading it with music, so who knows what you've ended up with."

This earned her a swift poke in the ribs from Jerry, which Faith accepted with a merry laugh. Better still was Carl's hug, bestowed on each of them in turn with earnest thanks and a smile nearly overflowing with delight. Even Bruce, who, at eight, had grown somewhat skeptical of hugs, held on tight to Carl's neck for a long moment, extracting promises of calls and emails and a visit over Thanksgiving weekend.

"Mind, you're getting a pat on the back for your birthday and Christmas," Jerry said, eliciting a laugh from the depths of Carl's embrace.

When they parted, Una held out her hands to Faith and Father. Faith reached for Bruce and he took Jerry, until they were all linked in a circle as if they were around the supper table.

"Lord," Father prayed, "please protect Carl and Faith and Jerry as they begin their year at Redmond. Watch over them in their travels, encourage them in all their endeavors, and strengthen them with both your love and ours. Amen."

Faith echoed the others, feeling slightly guilty about going through the motions without conviction. But she was certainly odd one out in that respect, and it wouldn't do to let on. Though perhaps she might start getting Jerry used to the idea by begging off Morning Prayers this year.

There was a final flurry of activity, with Jerry slamming the hatchback and Rosemary checking that they had packed the bag of snacks and a final round of hugs.

"Have a wonderful semester," Una whispered in Faith's ear. "I love you."

"I love you, too," Faith said with a squeeze. "And I really will call."

"Email's fine."

"You let me know if Mary ever needs telling off."

"I will."

Faith released her with a smile, though her conscience prickled as she climbed into the passenger's seat. It was a wonderful adventure to be off with Jerry and Carl, looking forward to all the excitement of another year at Redmond and the wide world beyond, but it was awfully hard to leave Una behind, standing in the dust as Jerry started down the dirt driveway. Carl leaned out the back window as they rattled along, waving until they turned onto the pavement.

Past the ancient Methodist graveyard with its crumbling tombstones, past the Presbyterian Church with Father's name on the sign above John 13:34 — _As I have loved you, love one another_ — past the Hollow and the Glen Pond and the old tumbledown house on the hill and Flagg's Market and the post office. Beyond Drew Autobody, they climbed another gentle slope past the retirement home where Faith spent her summers scrubbing dishes and changing bed linens with Mary Vance. Then the village was behind them and they were merging onto Veteran's Memorial Highway.

The old Subaru picked up speed, whizzing past salt marsh and red-soil potato fields lush with green rows that stretched to the horizon. It was the same road that had taken them so often to Lowbridge High and Charlottetown, but today they would not stop. Over the Confederation Bridge, onto the mainland, and onward to Kingsport. Faith had flown on an airplane a few times when Redmond played Windsor and Ryerson and other schools too far for a bus, so she recognized the sensation.

A buzzing in her backpack sent Faith scrambling for her phone. She fished it out of the front pocket to find a text from Di Blythe on the group chat:

_We're at the suite. Cooper Hall 417. Should I send you pics of the rooms so you can choose one?_

Faith tapped back: _No, that's ok. Pick what you want — I'm fine with whatever. Should be there by 3ish._

_Ok, see you then!_

Di seemed nice. Even Ari had nothing but good things to say, which had to count for something. Nan was a bit of an unknown quantity, but beggars can't be choosers and Faith was grateful not to be entirely at the mercy of the Housing Office. Besides, she was fairly confident in her ability to get along with anyone. They'd make it work.

"Do you know how to do this?" came a small voice from the backseat.

Faith turned around to find Carl nearly lost amid the high-piled bags and blankets, attempting to enable the Touch ID on his new phone.

"Sorry," Faith shrugged. "Mine's too old to have the fingerprint thing. Just follow the instructions."

"I'm trying."

Faith watched her brother roll his thumb around the home button in increasingly outlandish positions until a bright check appeared on the screen.

"We should make sure that thing is charged," she observed. "Is there a cable?"

"There should be," Carl said, digging through the sleek white box. "Just under here . . ."

He pulled out the divider, but went suddenly still, gaping at whatever was in the bottom of the box.

"What is it?" Faith asked, craning her neck.

Carl did not answer, but held up a small wad of folded cash. About $200 from the look of it. Well, at least that explained why Father had fiddled with the wrapping.

"I can't accept this," Carl gulped.

"Of course you can," Faith said, settling back into her seat.

"No, I can't. They can't afford . . . and they already gave me money for books . . . I don't need . . ."

Faith understood not wanting to take more than Father and Rosemary could give. The Meredith children rarely asked their parents for anything, never wanting to make them feel bad if it was beyond their power. Besides, _Carl had a very independent streak in him_ and had confided in his siblings that he meant to earn as much of his own way at Redmond as he could.** He had worked the past three tourist seasons at the Tastee Freeze and earned a little extra here and there by walking dogs and feeding cats when people went out of town. But there was also something to be said for receiving a gift graciously, especially one that entailed some sacrifice on the giver's part. Not to mention practical realities.

"You'll be glad you have it when you want to go out with your friends," Faith said pragmatically.

"I'll get a job."

"Of course you will," Jerry said, eyeing Carl in the rearview mirror. "But I'm not turning around, so you might as well put that in your wallet. If it's still there at Thanksgiving, you can sneak it into Father's desk and the two of you can go on hiding it on one another forever."

Faith laughed at this, but Carl obeyed, two pink spots rising in his cheeks as he slipped the money into his wallet.

"Now," Faith said, clapping her hands together, "let's have some music!"

"_No!_" Jerry exclaimed. "None of your psych tapes. No _Crazy in Love_, no whatsherface with the ponytail, and absolutely NO BANGLES."

"The Bangles are _classic_," Faith snickered.

"I have reached my lifetime Bangles limit."

"Fine," said Faith. "Let Carl choose."

Jerry groaned, but Carl was already hanging over the seat, reaching around Faith's water bottle to plug his phone into the cigarette lighter.

"What will it be?" he asked, grinning at Jerry and scrolling theatrically through his library. "Gaga? Troye Sivan? Original cast recording of _Cabaret_?"

"Please have mercy."

"Alright, alright," Carl said, settling down to business. "But you have to promise to sing along."

"Maybe," Jerry grumbled.

Something sparked in the dark blue eyes, shimmering with all the promise of the wide-open Gulf on a clear summer day. Carl pressed play with a flourish and Faith's smile widened as she recognized the insistent staccato of familiar synth strings.

"Oh no," Jerry moaned, but without any real hope of resisting what he had inadvertently started.

_I threw a wish in the well / Don't ask me; I'll never tell . . ._

No matter how many times she heard Carl sing, Faith always marveled at what a sweet, clear voice he had. Sisterly affection might played a role in this evaluation, but anyone who had ever heard the Glen St. Mary Presbyterian choir knew that Carl stood out in that strictly no-talent ensemble. Faith couldn't match his God-given gift, but that did not keep her from dancing in her seat, joining in on the first chorus with enthusiasm. They took the next verse at volume, and when they reached the second chorus, Carl seized Jerry by the shoulders, bopping along as much as his seatbelt would allow. Faith watched Jerry's reserve crumble under this importuning, smiling as he began to give in, mouthing the words at first, and eventually revealing that he really did know all the lyrics to "Call Me Maybe." By the time they got to _before you came into my life, I missed you so bad_, the Merediths were flying over the red hills in the old Subaru, _all three singing at the tops of their healthy young voices.***_

* * *

Notes:

*_Anne's House of Dreams_, Chapter 2, "The House of Dreams"

**_Rainbow Valley_, Chapter 31, "Carl Does Penance"

***_Rainbow Valley_, Chapter 14, "Mrs. Alec Davis Makes a Call." One of the things I noticed on a re-read of _Rainbow Valley_ is how often the Merediths sing. There's the famous Sacred Concert of chapter 27 (featuring "Polly Wooly Doodle") but there are several other references, including the episode where Jerry, Faith, and Carl sing "There'll Be a Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight" within hearing of an outraged Mrs. Alec Davis. "They are all beautiful singers," Susan says in defense of the Meredith children, and I mean to take her at her word.

Thank you all for your support! I was so happy to hear from old friends and new readers. Thanks especially to flavia, christine, and the guest reviewers — I'm so glad to have you aboard for this new venture!

Extra special thanks go to MrsVonTrapp for all her encouragement and indefatigable beta reading, and to samanthavimes for the brainstorming help.


	3. There's No Crying at Redmond

**There's No Crying at Redmond**

September 2016

* * *

Carl Meredith clutched the edges of a cardboard box. His palms were sweaty, his breath coming too fast, the straps of his overburdened backpack cutting into his shoulders. In front of him, the green lawn of the First Year residential quad unfurled in lush splendor, looking for all the world like a staged tableau in a brochure. The grass was so unnaturally uniform in color and height that it might have been a carpet, and the trees were on their very best behavior, pruned until every last one looked more like a picture of a tree than the thing itself. Brick dormitories rose on either side of the quad like Georgian sentinels with their white columns and palladian windows queening it over the scurrying First Years as if not yet convinced that they were worthy to scuff the steps.

"Pretty impressive, isn't it?" said Jerry, adjusting his hold on a second box.

"It hardly looks real."

"Oh, it's real enough," said Faith, slamming the Subaru's hatchback and extending the handle on Carl's rolling suitcase. She balanced his comforter and a bulging plastic shopping bag on top and pointed her chin at the papers he had balanced on the top of the box. "Do you have your room assignment?"

"I'm in Gardner Hall, Room 126."

"Straight ahead, then," said Jerry. "You're lucky — Gardner's got the nicest rooms."

Carl nodded. _Lucky_. What he felt was terrified.

"Let's get on with it," said Faith. "I told my roommates I'd be late, but not _this_ late."

The three Merediths carried Carl's luggage up the quad. Carl couldn't help but notice that there were an awful lot of parents around. Mothers and fathers toting garment bags and rubbermaid containers while upperclassmen in scarlet shirts that said "Welcome, Class of 2020!" gave directions and handed out welcome packets. A cheerful junior gave Carl a key at the check-in table, but it proved superfluous given the number of people eager to hold any door open for someone wearing a Redmond hoodie.

Gardner Hall teemed like a hill of ants. Every door was thrown open as parents and teenagers and a few younger siblings scuttled in and out, this one carrying a lamp, that one searching for trash bags, another determined to hunt up the Residential Advisor and have a word about the chipped paint in room 304.

Carl navigated the packed hallway, his stomach writhing as if he had swallowed several particularly unruly eels. In just a few moments, he would see his room, meet his roommate. It was all really happening.

Room 120 . . . 122 . . . 124 . . .

"Here we are!" said Faith. "Home sweet home."

Jerry gave an encouraging nod. Carl returned it, took a deep breath, and stepped over the threshold into his new life.

*/*/*

The first thing Carl noticed about his room was that it was already occupied. A slender, red-haired woman of around fifty was smoothing a quilt over one of the twin beds while a tall, broad-shouldered man with brown-and-silver curls unpacked books onto the built-in shelf. Both looked up when Carl entered the room, bright smiles illuminating their features.

"You must be the roommate!" said the man, bounding forward, his hand outstretched.

Carl attempted to shake his hand, but bobbled the box he was holding and gripped his fingers awkwardly.

"Whooooops," the man said. "Here, let me help you with that." He took the box from Carl, still beaming. "I'm Dr. Blythe."

"I'm . . . Carl Meredith," said Carl, at least half-sure that that was accurate.

"Oh, Gilbert, give the boy some space," said the red-haired woman. She wore a large button on her shirt proclaiming to all the world just how delighted she was to be here. "Welcome, Carl! I'm Anne Blythe. Our son is your roommate."

Carl craned his neck to see farther into the room, where someone was emerging from the walk-in closet.

_Oh, Christ._

Carl felt his knees go weak. _That_ was his roommate?

Dr. Blythe was grinning. "Carl, let me introduce you to . . ."

"John," said the other boy with grim emphasis. "John Blythe."

"And this is Carl," said Mrs. Blythe.

That was good. Carl could not have said anything half so confident at the moment.

John Blythe stepped forward to shake Carl's hand. He was good-looking in a careless, jockish way, as tall and broad as his father, though without the friendly demeanor. Brown-haired and tan, he had deep brown eyes that might have been beautiful if there had been any warmth to them. Instead, he was all business.

Carl shook hands, reminding himself to firm up his elbow, which wobbled like a soggy noodle.

"Yes. Carl. I'm Carl."

John did not smile. "And they are . . ."

Carl had quite forgotten Jerry and Faith, hovering at the door all this time.

"Oh!" he said, dismayed. "My brother, Jerry, and my sister, Faith."

Dr. and Mrs. Blythe exchanged a surprised look.

"Faith Meredith?" Mrs. Blythe asked. "The same Faith Meredith who is rooming with our daughters? Di and Nan?"

"That's me!" Faith said. "Sorry, I should have realized."

"Not to worry," Dr. Blythe chuckled warmly. "I'm afraid there are rather a lot of us running about the place."

"The girls are so excited to be rooming with you," Mrs. Blythe assured Faith.

"Me too," Faith replied. "You remember Di Blythe, don't you, Jerry? Comes to basketball games sometimes? With the pink hair?"

"Blue now," Mrs. Blythe interjected. "I can sympathize. I did once try to dye mine black, but it went all wrong and turned out green."

"That was before it was the fashion, of course," Dr. Blythe said, twinkling at his wife.

"Are you a student, too, Jerry?" Mrs. Blythe asked kindly.

"Yes, ma'am. I graduated last year, but I'm starting my first year at the law school."

"Well, good for you!" Mrs. Blythe beamed. "We don't have any lawyers in the family yet, do we, Gilbert? All doctors and poets so far. Did you perhaps know our son Walter? He was in your class."

"Walter Blythe? That sounds familiar. Dark hair? Read a poem at Commencement?"

"The very same! He's off traveling now."

"We've sent all the kids to Redmond so far," Dr. Blythe said, grinning. "Shir . . . John is the sixth."

John scowled briefly in his father's direction, but Dr. Blythe did not appear to notice. No, in order to notice, you would have to be staring at him like an idiot, watching every twitch and tremor of his beautiful . . .

"I said, do you have any more stuff to carry?" John asked, exasperated.

Carl blinked. "No. No, this is it."

"Fine. Well, that bed's yours. I left half the closet for you."

"Thanks."

Dr. Blythe was laughing now, Faith having told some successful joke or said something startling, as she always did.

"You must let us take you all to dinner," Mrs. Blythe said. "Are your parents around here somewhere?"

"No," Faith admitted. "They both had to work and couldn't stay overnight."

"Did you have a long drive?"

"Longer than we expected," Jerry admitted. "There's construction on the Confederation Bridge."

"The bridge?" Dr. Blythe asked, interested. "You're Islanders, then?"

"Born and bred," Jerry confirmed.

"How about that, Anne-girl!" Dr. Blythe said, jostling his wife with his elbow.

"Why, we're from Avonlea," Mrs. Blythe smiled. "We still have friends and family there. Whereabouts are you from?"

"Oh you wouldn't know it," Faith assured them. "It's much too small."

"Try us."

"It's a little village on the shore called Glen St. Mary."

"You don't say!" Dr. Blythe's surprise was genuine, as was his delight. "We used to visit my great-uncle and aunt in Four Winds years ago. Beautiful place! Maybe we know your parents."

"Probably not," Jerry said apologetically. "We only moved to the Glen ten years ago, when our father was called to the church there."

"Your father's a minister?" Mrs. Blythe asked.

"Yes, ma'am. Presbyterian."

"I suppose our old friends were gone before you arrived," Dr. Blythe said with a twist of his smile. "The Fords moved to Toronto and Captain Jim died long ago."

"You knew Captain Jim?" Carl piped up in surprise. How many times had he heard that name passing back and forth among the old salts who sat in the lee of the harbormaster's shed across from the Tastee Freeze, playing checkers and scowling at tourists? Usually attached to some wild yarn about the bygone days when the Gulf was full of fish and the young folk stayed on the Island.

"We did," Mrs. Blythe said, eyes shining like stars. "He was one of our dearest friends. I suppose he must be a Four Winds legend now."

"He is," Faith said. "Mrs. Marshall Elliott is full of stories about him."

Dr. Blythe frowned. "I don't think I'm acquainted with Mrs. Marshall Elliott."

"No?" Jerry asked. "If you knew Captain Jim, I would think you would have known her, too. They were great cronies. She lives in the green house down near the light."

Mrs. Blythe clasped her hands beneath her chin. "The green house? You can't mean Miss Cornelia Bryant, can you?"

"Yes!" Faith laughed. "The very same!"

Dr. Blythe chuckled. "Now_ that's_ a story I'd like to hear. How on earth did Cornelia Bryant get over her hatred of _the men_ sufficiently to marry one of them? Next you'll be telling me her husband belongs to the United Church!"

This startled a bark of laughter out of Faith, with Jerry and Carl joining in. How odd to find that Kingsport might not actually be located on the moon.

"You really must let us treat you to a meal," said Mrs. Blythe. "You can tell us all the Glen news."

Faith shook her head, still grinning, golden-brown curls bouncing in her ponytail. "Sorry, but we've got to get going. I didn't mean to keep Di and Nan waiting so long."

"I'm sure they'll be very glad to see you, dear," Mrs. Blythe beamed. "And you have a open invitation to our Sunday dinners once you settle in a bit. Don't stand on ceremony; our door is always open."

Faith and Jerry thanked the Blythes for their hospitality, then turned to Carl to say their goodbyes.

This was it. They were going. Carl was horrified to find a lump rising in his throat.

"You're all set here?" Jerry asked, looking at him with concern.

"Definitely. Fine." Carl replied, hoping for something approximating his normal voice.

"Ok," said Jerry. "Text if you need anything. Remember, we're just across campus. And we'll see you at the chapel on Tuesday for Morning Prayers. 8:30 sharp."

"Yep." Carl bit the inside of his lip to keep from sobbing. Oh, this was absurd! He'd see Jerry and Faith practically every day! And he was here! At Redmond! There's no crying at Redmond!

Faith gave him a hug and a peck on the cheek. "I know you've got orientation tomorrow. But if you want to get coffee, just text me, alright?"

Carl could only nod his thanks. He had never exactly been the stoic type, but it would be humiliation past enduring to blubber in front of the Blythes. Much better to pretend indifference, waving silently rather than take the chance of speaking.

Faith turned once at the end of the hall and blew a kiss. And with that, they were gone.

"Isn't it time you two got going as well?" John drawled in his parents' general direction.

"Are you sure you don't want us to stay a bit longer, sweetheart?" Mrs. Blythe asked. "Or take you and Carl to dinner, perhaps? We could all get to know one another."

"No," John said curtly. "We're fine. Really. You can go."

Mrs. Blythe looked to her husband, who gave a reluctant nod.

"Alright. But you call us if you need anything at all. Dad's just over at the hospital, and I can come by any time."

"I'll be fine, Mum."

"Don't forget Sunday dinner."

"We have orientation tomorrow."

"Next week, then."

"Ok."

"And let us know which courses you've decided on."

"Bye, Mum."

"Alright, we're going. We're so proud of you, sweetheart."

Carl swallowed again, watching John endure his parents' embraces. He knew why Father and Rosemary had to stay home, of course. They couldn't be running off to Kingsport at the start of every term, what with the congregation and the daycare families relying on them. But just for a minute, he wished that they had fussed over him like the Blythes fussed over John. Carl knew that they would rather he have a little cash in his wallet than spend that money on a hotel room, but he wasn't sure, in this moment, that he agreed.

"Bye, Dad," John was saying, tolerating a hearty hug from Dr. Blythe.

"Have a wonderful semester. Study hard, but not too hard!"

"Ok. Bye."

Dr. Blythe grabbed his jacket from the back of John's desk chair. As he swung it on, Carl blinked at the lapel pin: the unmistakable concentric rainbow circles of PFLAG Canada. He wasn't surprised that one of the Blythe kids was queer — really, there were enough of them that it would be stranger if they weren't. Blue-haired Di, maybe? But Carl was struck by the sight of Dr. Blythe wearing his PFLAG affiliation just as prominently as Mrs. Blythe wore her "PROUD REDMOND PARENT, CLASS OF 2020" pin. Just out in the open like that.

_You're not in Glen St. Mary anymore._

With a last round of hugs and cheery waves to Carl, the Blythes disappeared through the door.

"Finally," John muttered.

With that, he swiped a handheld video game from his desk, popped in his earbuds, and flopped onto his bed without even the briefest glance in Carl's direction.

Carl turned back to his naked mattress. There were sheets in one of these boxes, those weird extra-long ones that only fit dorm beds. He had inherited them from Una, practically new. Carl did not relish the prospect of wrestling them awkwardly onto the bed while John looked on, though there was really no indication that his roommate had any interest in anything other than his screen. Nothing drew his attention, not even when Carl repositioned his desk, screeching it across the floor until it sat under one of the room's two windows. Yes, that was better. There was a green slope out there with a pretty little fir-lined path that ran down into the marshy outskirts of tiny silver pond. It looked like a good place to study.

For now, music. The phone had come with brand-new earbuds, which Carl uncoiled lovingly, savoring their sleek beauty. He was still almost afraid to touch the phone itself for fear he might mar it somehow. He'd need to get a case to keep it safe, but is seemed a sacrilege to blunt the rose gold curves. Did they make clear covers? Thin ones?

With Adele crooning in his ear, Carl busied himself, emptying the contents of his backpack into the desk and chewing his lip to keep from singing along. He could not help dancing a bit, bopping along silently as he unrolled his charging cables.

Despite his efforts to remain unobtrusive, Carl did need to cross to John's side of the room to hang up his shirts in the empty half of the closet. It was impossible not to notice John's wardrobe, even if Carl hadn't been curious, which he was. The somber row of shirts made even Carl's modest wardrobe of blues and greens look positively spritely, though Carl could not help noticing that there were some interesting jackets hiding in the back. The shoes looked promising as well, though they were partially obscured by the gigantic hockey bag taking up most of the floor.

It did not take long for Carl to unpack his worldly possessions. At home, his room was full of odds and ends — a mason jar full of sea glass, half a dozen shed snakeskins, a fan of feathers he'd collected in the Hollow — but he had left most of that behind, bringing only the black, sea-smoothed pebble he always kept in his pocket. He touched it for reassurance now, glad that it still felt the same in this alien place. Other things helped, too — the framed family photo on the corner of his desk, his confirmation Bible on the bookshelf, the Sunday shoes tucked under the edge of the bed. When it came to his little makeup bag, Carl hesitated. Should he put it right there on top of his dresser? Just out in the open like that? He darted a look at John and decided to shove it into the back of the drawer instead. More like home every minute.

*/*/*

Carl was nearly finished transferring clothes from his suitcase into the drawers of his dresser when someone knocked at the open door. John remained absorbed in his video game, but Carl looked up, only to feel his insides perform a now-familiar flop.

The man in the doorway was tall and athletic, dark-haired and gray-eyed, with clear brown skin several shades darker than John's. He carried a hockey bag big enough that Carl could have folded himself into it without much trouble. This was no freshman, judging by his air of casual amusement. As quickly as possible, Carl shoved the underwear he was holding into the drawer and slammed it shut.

The dark-haired man did not notice. He looked past Carl, shouting, "Yo, Blythe! You ready?"

For the first time since his parents had left, John looked up from his game.

"Just let me grab my stuff," he said, tossing it aside and hopping up from the bed.

"I told the guys to hold a spot for you on the roster," the man said, coming into the room. "First Years generally have to try out for intramurals, but I vouched for you."

"Thanks."

When John ducked into the closet, the man caught sight of Carl for the first time.

"Ken Ford," he said, extending a hand and unfurling a smile that could sell a million tubes of toothpaste.

"I'm Carl. John's roommate."

Ken wrinkled his nose. "Who's John?"

John reemerged with his bag and stick, using his free hand to clap Ken's shoulder in a gesture half-comradely, half-threatening. "I am. Try to keep up."

Ken shrugged. "Well, _John_ and I go way back. Our families are old friends. I grew up with his older brothers, but now that Jem's got his nose buried in his medical books and Walter deserted me for parts unknown, I'm stuck with this jackass."

"You're perfectly free to leave me alone."

"I would, but we're short a defenseman."

John gave a grudging little snort. "Let's go."

Ken obliged, turning back into the hall. "See you later, Kyle," he called over his shoulder.

Reflexively, Carl put up a hand in a gesture of silent farewell, even as the door slammed shut.

* * *

Notes:

Thanks so much to all you lovely Guest reviewers! I cherish your reviews — thank you for taking the time to comment! I can't answer every question (except with an evil little laugh as I twirl my mustache) but here are a few answers:

\- Sylvia will have some differences from her Dispatches/Happiness incarnation, but some things never change :)

\- Definitely more Nan soon! There are 11 point-of-view characters in season 1, and Nan is one of them.

\- I can promise lots of fun with Jem and Faith. I might have to publish an M-rated companion piece for this universe as well!


	4. Cooper Hall

**Cooper Hall**

* * *

The elevator in Cooper Hall was broken. Perhaps it had been overloaded, or perhaps it was just tired of going up and down for hours without ceasing. Regardless, it was kaput.

Adrenaline had buoyed Di on her first six trips up the crowded stairwells to the fourth floor, but that had been this morning, when she had been full of blueberry fritters and zest for life. Now, on the seventh trip, she was dragging.

Di would have liked to rest her bags on the floor, but the flow of traffic would not allow it. Above her, a line of students laden with suitcases and gym bags plodded up the wearisome stairs, while below her, a group of boys were doing their best not to show how much they were struggling with their futon. At least she and Nan had gotten theirs up to their suite before the elevator gave up the ghost.

The futon boys turned off at the third floor, but Di trudged on, the cold drinks bouncing against her leg with each step. Just a few more and she'd be home, pitying the poor devils who had to keep climbing up to the sixth floor.

When she reached the open door of suite 417, Di found Nan standing on a stepstool, working with Jem to hang a border of icicle lights around the common room.

"Oh, good!" Nan said, trying to keep her balance while looking over her shoulder. "Can you tell us if these look straight?"

Di squinted. "Bring that loop up a bit, Nan. Ok. Looks straight to me."

The futon creaked as Di collapsed onto the pile of pillows with a whoosh, letting her bottles clatter against the floor.

"Took you long enough," Jem said, giving Nan a hand down from her stepstool.

"Yeah, well, it's a zoo out there."

Jem and Nan attacked the grocery bags, bringing out cold drinks and the odd assortment of snacks Di had been able to lay hands on. They had been hard at work all day with only tepid tap water to drink, and breakfast had burned off hours ago. The pickings at the corner store had been slim, but a break would revive them all.

"I had to wrestle somebody's dad for that iced tea," Di said, nodding at the frosty bottle in her sister's hand. "And I nearly got run over on the way back. People are parked all over the sidewalk and going the wrong way down one-way streets. It's a madhouse out there."

Not in here, though. Nan and Jem had used the last hour to great advantage, transforming the common room into an oasis of calm. Besides the twinkle lights, they had hung a tile-pattern tapestry Jem had brought back from Spain, set up the minifridge, and spread Aunt Marilla's rug in front of the futon. It was a good-sized room and had the marvelous advantage of opening out onto the famous Cooper Hall terrace. The upper floors of the dorm were recessed, creating a wide patio on the roof of the third floor where the College groundskeepers had set out little potted trees and seating clusters with a view down over the park and toward the harbor. All the suites on this side of the fourth floor opened onto it, conferring a widely-envied honor on those juniors so generously blessed by the housing gods. The suite itself consisted of three single bedrooms with windows overlooking the terrace, a shared bathroom, and the common room with its wide windows and terrace door. It was really one of the prettiest suites on campus, which was why Nan had been so wild to keep it after Persis left and so quick to agree to take Faith sight unseen.

A phone buzzed somewhere and Di reached for her backpack, but it was Jem's.

"It's EMS," he said, flicking open the text. "Are you two alright here if I go start my shift early?"

"We're fine," said Di. "Busy day for the ambulance?"

"One of the busiest. If people aren't falling off ladders or hitting their thumbs with hammers, they're dropping from dehydration. The real fun will start once the parents clear out."

Di's eye slid over the terrace, reflecting that she ought to have brought some more festive beverages to ring in the new school year. It was still early; maybe she'd run out and pick something up once the frenzy subsided.

Nan's mind seemed to be traveling along a similar path. "I should probably get some darker curtains for my room."

"Probably," Jem agreed. "Though terrace parties tend to be quiet enough. Restricted access. I've only ever taken three calls here. No wait, make that four. I forgot about the guy who tried to climb up the side of the building like Spiderman and only made it halfway."

"Can't really blame that on the terrace, can you?" Di smirked.

"It was during the Halloween party. Very exclusive, you know, and I guess poor Spidey wasn't among the favored few. I usually work Halloween night, but I guess I can count on a terrace invitation this year?"

"Of course!" Di replied at the same time Nan said, "We'll see."

Jem jostled Nan with his elbow. "We could do a theme costume. Star Wars, maybe? Or Avengers?"

"You'll have to pick something with more than one woman in it," Nan said sweetly.

"Oooh, we could do Steven Universe!" exclaimed Di. "Nan, you've got Pearl on lock and I could be Amethyst. Jem, you could be, well, any of the tall ones, really. Or Lion! You could be Lion!"

"What, and pass up the chance to be a Gem?" he asked with a twinkle.

"But Lion _is_ a Gem," Di said earnestly. "At least there are several fan theories that argue . . ."

"Oh, please don't let her get going," Nan said, herding Jem toward the door. "Thank you for all your help, really. But save yourself."

Jem laughed and waggled his fingers in farewell. Di and Nan assured him that yes, they would see him soon, and no they wouldn't be in any need of the ambulance tonight or any other night, and of course they'd say howdy to the new roommate on his behalf. And thank you, really and truly, for the help.

When he had disappeared into the stairwell, Nan turned back toward the common room with a sigh. "What time did you say Faith is supposed to arrive?"

"Any minute now," Di said, checking her phone. "She said they were going to get her little brother set up first, but that was more than an hour ago."

"Alright, well, I'm going to go get started on my closet. You?"

"I think I'll go in search of ice. If Faith's been helping her brother move, she'll need a cold drink, too."

"I think there's an ice machine in the lounge at the end of the hall, but I don't have a bucket."

"No problem," Di said, dumping the snacks out of the plastic grocery bag and onto the futon. "This will work fine."

It was a reasonable plan, but unfortunately, the ice machine on the fourth floor was as broken as the elevator. The stairwell was too packed with short-tempered movers to contemplate trying the third floor lounge, but the air seemed clearer going the other way. Di trudged wearily up to the fifth floor and was rewarded for her efforts. She scooped ice into her grocery bag, savoring the shiver when she held it against her body for a moment.

Di had nearly made it back to the stairwell when a crash and yelp from a half-open suite door brought her up short. When this was followed by a piteous moan, she knocked cautiously.

"Everything alright in there?"

The suite looked just like 417, except that it overlooked the terrace, rather than opening onto it. Its lone inhabitant was sitting up against the common room wall, head in her hands. A framed Tegan and Sara poster lay on the floor beside her, evidently the source of the crash.

"Hello?" Di said, taking in the scene. "You ok?"

The girl looked up, her _round, dark-blue eyes_ brimming with tears. "I'm fine," she said, pushing back a fall of _sleek sugar-brown curls_.* "Just losing a battle with this poster."

"Do you want some help?"

The girl pursed her _small, rosy mouth_, considering a moment before she nodded. "Yes. If you're not too busy, I mean."

She had _a thrilling voice with a little quaver in it. Diana Blythe responded to the charm of that voice instantly_.

"I'm not busy," Di lied, setting her bag of ice on the floor.

The girl was on her feet now, still swiping at those unruly curls, which bounced tantalizingly against her shoulders. She was nearly as tall as Di, with luscious curves and bangles that jingled when she _held out her hands dramatically._

"I'm Delilah Green," she said.

_Her voice was more thrilling than ever . . . it positively sent a creep along Di's spine. She put her hands in Delilah's and they looked at each other solemnly, feeling dedicated and sealed. At least, Di felt that way._

"I'm Di Blythe."

"What year are you?"

"Junior."

"Me, too," Delilah dimpled. "Though I just transferred here and I don't know a single soul in Nova Scotia."

"Don't you have roommates?"

"I suppose I must. But I transferred late and have to take whoever the housing office decides to give me. Likely I'll get stuck with the leftovers nobody else wanted."

"What about your family?" Di asked. "Didn't anyone come to help you move in?"

"No," Delilah sighed, squeezing Di's fingers with pillow-soft hands. "My parents don't really believe in sending girls to college."

"_What?_"

"Oh, they never say so in as many words," Delilah said with an air of desolation. "But they don't support me like they support my brother. They paid all his tuition and living expenses in Toronto while he was in college, but they wouldn't give me a dime. I promised I'd live at home to save money, but they said that if I wanted to stay, I'd have to pay rent."

Di was flabbergasted. Surely there couldn't really be parents with such retrograde views, could there? In the 21st century?

"What did you do?"

Delilah shrugged. "Moved out on my own. Paid my own way for two years and lived on instant ramen. Then I transferred here once I got a scholarship. I don't have a friend in the world, but I've managed to make it this far even though _nobody_ cares what happens to me."

_Delilah managed to put ages of loneliness and loveliness into that "nobody." Di tightened her grasp._ She was awed, half horrified by Delilah's privations, half impressed by her courage, and wholly captivated by those sorrowful blue eyes.

"Well, you're here now," Di said. "Won't you let me be your friend?"

Delilah's face lit like a firecracker. "Do you mean it?"

"Absolutely!"

"Oh, Di!" Delilah gasped. "Really? I've never had a _true_ friend." She punctuated this declaration by dropping Di's hands and throwing her arms about her in an exuberant embrace.

Di grinned to herself. Perhaps another girl might have found this instant intimacy alarming, but Di was fluent in the language of eternal vows and bosom friends. Ever since she was a kid, she had always fallen for other girls in a single flash of infatuation. There was a little silver box on her dresser at Ingleside full of friendship bracelets and the jagged halves of necklaces that were supposed to fit together to form hearts or perfect circles. BEST/FRIENDS. The friendships themselves had all fallen away, but Di didn't regret any of them, except maybe Pauline. That had ended messily, but it wasn't really anyone's fault. In the end, Di was left with a precious pearl of hard-earned wisdom: don't fall in love with your straight friends. She wished Pauline all the best, and hardly ever stalked her Instagram anymore.

Well, Pauline had never had a Tegan and Sara poster on her wall, that was for sure. The possibilities thrilled Di to her fingertips.

"Can I help you with your poster?" Di asked, smiling as she drew back from the hug.

"Oh! Yes, please! It tried to maim me just before you came in."

Di checked the hook Delilah had affixed to the wall, which seemed sturdy. Together, they lifted the oversize poster which, Di couldn't help but notice, was professionally framed.

"I can never tell which is which," Delilah said as they admired the effect. "It would be so strange to be a twin, don't you think?"

"I _am_ a twin," Di chuckled.

"Really? Oh, no! Have I offended you dreadfully?"

"Not at all! Besides, Nan and I don't look anything alike. You'll meet her sometime — we live on the fourth floor."

"That figures," Delilah muttered. "You'll never have to worry about nobody loving you when you've got a twin."

The sullen little pout on Delilah's rosy lips was such a picturesque affectation that Di laughed. "Trust me, we're very different people."

"I suppose you have to be getting back to her anyway," Delilah sighed. "Don't worry; I'll get along fine on my own."

It was true enough that Nan would be wondering where she was by now, but Di hated to leave Delilah all alone with her wall hangings.

"Tell you what," Di said, catching Delilah's hand again, "after we've unpacked a bit more, let's all get supper together. The dining hall doesn't open till tomorrow, but we could order in. Make a little party of it."

"Really and truly?" Delilah's disbelief tugged at Di's heartstrings. Hadn't anyone ever made her feel included before?

"Really and truly," Di averred. "I think . . ."

She was interrupted by her phone, which buzzed with several incoming texts in quick succession.

_Hi. I'm downstairs. _

_Sorry I'm so late. It's sort of chaotic out here._

_Could you come down to help me with my stuff? My brother can't find anywhere to park so he's just going to drop me off at the corner._

"It's my other roommate," Di said with a rueful twist to her lips. "I really do have to go."

Delilah plucked the phone from Di's hand and tapped away rapidly. Di was too surprised to object, but smiled when Delilah handed it back to her with a new contact entry for "Delilah Green 😘"

"I'll text you for dinner," Di said, a little short of breath.

"You'd better."

Delilah lingered in the doorway, smiling that bewitching little smile as Di tripped down the hall clutching her dripping bag of cold water. It was going to be a very interesting semester indeed.

* * *

A little fan on Nan's desk whirred steadily, stirring a feeble breeze out of the late-summer air. Nan slipped the last of her dresses into her closet — hello, old friend — adjusting the hanger so that each piece had ample room to breathe. There. She had spent a giddy afternoon last week shopping for hanging organizers and shoe racks, daydreaming about the fresh start of a new room _with no mistakes in it yet_.

This had always been Nan's favorite time of year, when the world was full of pencil shavings and unspoiled notebooks and crisp backpacks waiting to be filled. Mum liked to joke that Nan had pushed Di into the world in the last week of August because she couldn't stand to miss the start of the school year. Di maintained that Nan was such a die-hard Virgo that she simply could not accept the Libra due-date by which Di reckoned her own astrological chart.

Where was Di, anyway? She'd gone for ice ages ago.

Nan busied herself with her accessories, arranging shoes on the rack, threading belts through a cunning little hangar, designating a spot on the shelf for her teal computer bag. It was satisfying work, but not wholly absorbing, and her mind began to wander as it often did, _fashioning secret drama for herself out of everything she heard or saw or read, sojourning in realms of wonder and romance._**

Soon, Nan had left her own prosaic underwear and hosiery far behind, answering the call of rustling petticoats and whalebone corsets. A crystalline ballroom grew up around her, populated by gentlemen in impeccable evening wear who danced the sort of dances you had to learn from diagrams, sometimes stooping to kiss the gloved hands of ladies who tormented them with enigmatic compliments.

But where to start the scene? That was the crucial question. Should she begin with the journey to Netherfield — did anyone really care about what sort of carriage the Bennets kept? — or drop the reader into the midst of the scene already in progress? Perhaps into the middle of Jane's first dance with Bingley? Or maybe . . .

Nan's phone called her back from her reverie. She snatched it from the desk, thinking perhaps Di had gotten lost or locked out somehow. But the photo on the screen showed a smiling, dark-eyed girl with a glorious mane of black curls, her cheek smooshed up against Nan's in a selfie they'd taken together last spring.

"Persis!"

"Ciao, bella!" Persis laughed. "That means, _How are you lovey? Wish you were here!_"

"No, it doesn't." Nan put Persis on speaker phone and settled in to untangle her jewelry while they chatted.

"But I do! And you would _adore_ Milan. All the little squares and fountains — _bellissima! _You absolutely _must_ come visit me over Christmas."

"I'd have to learn some Italian first. You're enjoying it, though?"

"Sono _innamorata!_"

"I'll take that as a yes."

"_Yes_. But how are things with you? Have you moved in yet?"

"Working on it."

"And the new roommate?"

"Due any minute. But tell me more about Milan. Details, please."

Persis did not need further persuasion. She made no distinction between a visit to the world-famous cathedral and a trip to the _divine_ gelato parlor down the street, all of her experiences jumbling together as she poured them out simultaneously.

Ever since she was a little girl, Nan had envied and adored Persis in equal measure — alright, sometimes not _exactly_ equal — drinking in the tales of her world travels with mingled delight and longing. _"Far, far away" had always been words of magic to Nan, like faint music over a windy hill.**_ One magical summer, the Fords had taken Nan with them to London while Di was away at softball camp and Uncle Omesh was doing a UK book tour. The girls had spent a glorious month haunting the British Museum, taking tea in little cafés, and having their lives tormented out by a mischievous Ken, which was rather more pleasant than not. Nan had considered Persis a sister ever since. Now, she listened indulgently to Persis's overflowing enthusiasm for all things Italian, contributing to the conversation only when Persis paused for breath.

"Have you heard from your parents lately?"

"They're still in Mumbai," Persis said. "Grandmother's doing better, but she has to get a pacemaker, so they're going to stay through New Year's at least."

"Weren't they were going to visit you?"

"They were, but that's off now. Oh well, I plan on being shacked up in a villa with a dashing Italian millionaire by the end of the month, so it's probably for the best."

Nan giggled, though if anyone could transform that particular fantasy into reality, it was Persis Ford. "In that case, maybe I _will_ come visit you," she said. "As long as Romeo has plenty of single millionaire friends."

"Is it really over with Patrick, then?" Persis asked, her voice dropping into a more serious tone.

"It was just a summer thing," Nan said quietly.

"Are you ok?"

"I'm fine. Really. It was mutual." That was the truth, wasn't it? Breakups were never exactly _pleasant_, but Patrick had had a built-in expiration date. Really, it was fine.

"I've got to go now," Nan said before Persis could ask any more follow-ups. "Our new roommate is here and I've got to go say hello."

"Alright," Persis said slowly. "Say hello to Di for me?"

"Of course. Give Romeo a kiss on my behalf."

"I will, just as soon as I meet him."

"Ciao."

"Ciao, bella!"

Nan tossed the phone onto the bed with a sigh. It landed on the pile of neatly folded sheets, marring the crisp cotton. Really, she should make up the bed, but the prospect was not terribly appealing. A quarter hour ago, it had seemed like fun to set everything in order, but the wind had gone out of her sails. Where was Di with that ice, anyway? It was too hot for all this carrying and folding and all the other sticky work of moving. The little fan on the desk helped a bit, but Nan had a sudden longing for the cool shade of the park, perhaps ending up at the shore or at the top of the martello tower, gazing out to sea.

It would never do to disappear now, though. Faith really ought to be here any minute and it was possible that Di might need rescuing as well. Nan could not go far, but she could not stay here a moment longer.

Catching up her phone, she made haste for the terrace. It really was a lovely place, with its view of the harbor and the beckoning Atlantic beyond. Di had wanted to get their own apartment this year — nevermind her doubtful cooking and Persis's aversion to cleaning — but they'd won a high enough number in the housing lottery to claim a terrace suite. One look at the view decided things for Nan; one look at Nan decided things for Di.

The salt wind on the terrace was a blessed relief. Nan made a circuit of the place, placing her dainty feet just so among the tiles so that she never stepped on a crack. There were tables here and there, and benches flanked by Redmond-red geraniums. At the far edge, Nan leaned over the waist-high wall to watch the tumult below. From four floors up, the movers were a scurrying crowd muffled by the breeze that loosened nut-brown tendrils from Nan's braid and sent them streaming. Who were they, all those students and parents and siblings far below? Who would win a great victory this year or suffer a terrible disappointment? Who would make a lifelong friendship or write a wonderful thesis? Who would fall in love? Whose heart would break?

A blue van pulled into the only available space, which was a clearly-marked bus stop. Four small figures emerged and ran around the van, opening and closing doors, unloading the contents onto the curb with the frenzied speed of a silent film. Then one of them hopped back into the driver's seat and pulled away while the other three loaded themselves like pack mules. This performance was repeated several times, each family doing their best to occupy the illegal space for as little time as possible. A silver SUV, a black hatchback, a beat-up red Subaru . . .

Nan's phone vibrated in her hand.

_Hi. I'm downstairs. _

_Sorry I'm so late. It's sort of chaotic out here._

_Could you come down to help me with my stuff? My brother can't find anywhere to park so he's just going to drop me off at the corner._

Where on earth was Di? Certainly not responding to Faith's messages.

_I'll be right down! I'm on the terrace._

Far below, the Lilliputian emerging from the passenger's side of the old Subaru looked up and waved. Nan waved back, then turned and hurried back across the terrace and through the suite, snatching her keys on the way out.

_Di! _Nan typed as she navigated the crowded stairs._ Where are you?_

Oh, if only Jem were still here. Or the elevator weren't broken! Nan just hoped Faith hadn't brought too much stuff.

That hope, at least was realized. By the time Nan reached the curb, Faith stood beside a modest pile of belongings, hugging a black-haired boy goodbye.

"Oh, here's Nan!" Faith said, catching sight of her over the boy's shoulder.

"Hello," Nan said, feeling suddenly shy. Faith was Di's friend and _where was Di?_ You could never get rid of her until you actually needed her and then she was like a ship in the night.

"It's so nice to meet you at last!" Faith said, smiling as she shook Nan's hand. Plain words, but they were warmed with a little laugh.

Ever on the lookout for character details, Nan took Faith in at a glance. She had a face like an orchid, exquisite and fresh. Her shining golden-brown curls were rucked up carelessly with garish green elastic and she wore Redmond-logo warmups and plastic slides. In addition to the laughing voice, her whole posture inclined toward friendliness, leaning forward as if she had been stopped mid-stride and was eager to get going again. She seemed taller than she really was.

As for the boy with her, he was slim and barely taller than Nan was herself, having none of the broad-shouldered bulk that always had Persis in a swoon. He was pale and scrupulously clean-shaven with black hair and large, flashing black eyes over a blue button-down shirt. Nan might have expected anyone who had emerged from that crappy old car — how on earth did it make it from PEI to Kingsport? — to be rumpled or sloppy, but the boy was neither. Very neither. Their eyes met for a single heartbeat, jolting Nan with a cold wash of self-consciousness.

"Nice to meet you, too," Nan said, resolutely refocusing her attention on Faith. "Di's around here somewhere."

This invocation seemed to conjure her.

"Here I am!" Di was pink-cheeked and blowing, evidently having run here from goodness only knew where. The front of her shirt was soaked, with dribbles of water tracing dark tracks down her shorts.

"Where have you been?" Nan asked, a trifle crossly.

"Tell you later," Di grinned. Then, extending a hand to Faith, "You made it!"

"Uh, Faith," the black-haired boy interjected, "I've really got to go. I'm parked in a bus stop."

Faith flung an arm around his shoulders and squeezed, ignoring his nervous glance toward the car. "Nan, Di, this is my brother Jerry. Jerry, Nan and Di."

Jerry offered a cool and delicate hand to both in turn, but he was being pulled irresistibly toward the Subaru as if by a gigantic magnet. "Nice to meet you both," he said, straining to remain still and maintain a veneer of manners. "Do you need any more help, Faith?"

"Oh, we'll be fine," Faith assured him. "See you Tuesday."

"Okgreatthanks," Jerry said, hurrying toward the car without a backward glance.

Nan watched him disappear into the car, then rocket out of the bus stop. Faith had mentioned her brothers of course, but Nan hadn't given them a second thought. One of them was a freshman, but what about this one? A law student, was that right? She opened and closed her hand, marveling at the lingering sensation.

"I think we can get this all in one trip," Faith was saying, hoisting a laundry basket filled with odds and ends onto her hip to balance out the duffel on the other side.

"The elevator's broken," Nan warned.

"That's ok!" Di said. "We'll just hoof it. Then maybe we could order some food?"

Nan watched as her sister led the way, bouncing on the balls of her feet as if this were her very first trip up the stairs. Where Di found the energy, Nan could not imagine. She sighed, stooping to gather Faith's comforter and several shopping bags bulging with sneakers and clothes hangers. Before she followed the girls upstairs, she stopped to look down the block to the place where the red Subaru was disappearing around a corner.

* * *

Notes:

*_Anne of Ingleside_, chapter 37. The quotes in this section are all from Di's first meeting with Delilah Green, which I have tried to tone down a bit from canon.

**_Anne of Ingleside_, chapter 35


	5. Sacred Spaces

Many thanks to Evaseawynd for research help on Canadian law!

* * *

**Sacred Spaces**

* * *

Memorial Chapel was packed, as it generally was for the first service of any new semester. Over the next week or so, the crowd would dwindle as good intentions crumbled in the face of coursework and oversleep and long lines at Tim Horton's, but for today, every seat in the little chapel was filled. Which made it particularly annoying that Faith was late.

"Sorry," she said with a sheepish smile, slipping into the spot Jerry had saved for her as the echo of the final bell faded.

Jerry sighed. Faith generally ran very close to the wire, but she always came through in the end. From her flushed face and shower-wet hair, she must have come directly from her morning workout with the team.

On Jerry's other side, Carl grinned and waved. "Good morning!"

"Everything going alright?" Faith whispered, leaning across Jerry's lap.

"Yeah."

"How's your roommate?"

"He's . . . umm . . . well . . ."

The organ blared an opening chord, shushing them more effectively than Jerry could have. Jerry wasn't sorry; they could chit-chat after the service. The next fifteen minutes were for prayer and reflection, preparing them all to meet the day as their best selves.

Memorial Chapel was Jerry's favorite place at Redmond. Campus might thrum with the pulse of busy Kingsport, but the little stone building was a haven. Behind an art-deco screen embellished with allegorical figures — Knowledge, Hope, Peace — the mahogany choir stalls faced one another so that Morning Prayers always meant looking at the people across from you, or at least at the memorial plaques mounted on the wall above their heads. _Sacred to the Memory of. _After four years of Morning Prayers, Jerry had nearly memorized those plaques, the neat rows of gold-leafed names commemorating all the Redmond students who had gone off to the First World War and never returned. He was always struck by the wording, lamenting all those young lives lost in "the Great War." Had the architects of Memorial Chapel ever imagined that they would need to hang a matching plaque on the opposite wall for their own children?

The interfaith chaplains were filing in now, followed by the choir in their fresh-pressed scarlet robes. They took their places in the central stalls on either side of the aisle, smiling when the choirmaster counted them in. Jerry recognized most of them from last year, but a sandy-haired boy second from the left and a freckle-faced girl in front were both new. Their joyous Bach chorale filled the little chapel, making Jerry feel every outside care and worry melt away. Yes, today was his first day of law school; yes, he was already fretting over what internships to pursue for next summer; yes, he was anxious to see whether Carl got along better at Redmond than Una had. But for now, what mattered was the choir and the organ and the little chapel where he could give everything over to God for fifteen minutes every morning.

There were prayers and responses and a blessing from the senior chaplain for all their new beginnings. At the last, the Merediths took up their hymnals and joined in the shuffle of pages.

Jerry had never been as interested in Rosemary's music lessons as Una or Carl, and thus did not have a precise technical vocabulary for these sorts of things. If asked to describe Faith's voice, he would have said that it was one of the middle-ish ones, not so very different from her speaking voice, smooth and resonant when it came from her chest and taking on a little of her laugh when it went higher. Carl was way up in the clouds somewhere. Even if he were singing the same notes as Faith, they were different somehow, sweet and soaring. Together, they made a sort of whole sound that Jerry was reluctant to mar. Rosemary had told Jerry once that he had a fine, clear voice and a good sense of pitch, which he had taken to mean that his place in the family ensemble was to provide unwavering ballast to the best of his ability. When he joined in, he sang the lines unadorned by any aspiration other than praise.

Carl leaned a shoulder against him and took off from there, following the choir along some traceless updraft while the rest of the congregation remained earthbound. Jerry was perfectly content to admire their frills from solid ground, plodding steadily through the verses and feeling wholly at peace.

*/*/*

The seminar room at the law school was just exactly what Jerry had hoped it would be. It had clean lines and plenty of natural light, but was decorated in a style that evoked gravitas, from the wood-paneled walls to the smart, leather-covered chairs. Even the wood-framed chalkboard was a crisp, deep, black with no white residue in the corners, as if it were scrubbed after every session. The chalk made a satisfyingly creamy sound as Professor Greenleaf wrote his name.

As the first student to arrive, Jerry had his choice of seats, selecting one with a good view of the blackboard and no glare from the windows. He noted with approval that the table was the fancy sort with artfully disguised outlets at every seat. Not that Jerry needed an outlet. He always took his notes by hand, rather than exposing his old rattletrap laptop to his peers, preferring to let it wheeze and whir in the privacy of his own room. Besides, copying his notes over helped him absorb them. And besides besides, he liked the feel of a pen in his hand. You could get very passable fountain pens cheap these days, but Jerry had bought himself a Waterman as a graduation present and meant to make the most of it. He flipped open a notebook embossed with the Redmond Law School seal and wrote in a clear, firm hand: _Law and Society Seminar, Fall 2016_.

When he looked up, he was no longer the only student in the room. It took him a moment to recognize the brown-haired girl striding purposefully toward the seat opposite him, but only a moment. He was fairly certain she was one of Faith's roommates, though he had only gotten a brief look at them when he'd dropped Faith off. After all, he _had_ been parked illegally. But if she were Faith's roommate, that meant that she was a junior at the college, not a law student. Was she lost?

Evidently not. The girl seemed perfectly at ease as she opened her teal leather tote and produced a crisp folder and an iPad with a bluetooth keyboard. She set them up neatly, then looked up across the table for the first time and jumped, evidently recognizing Jerry as well.

There was no time to say anything, though. Other students were filing in and filling up the seats, unpacking their notebooks and the article Professor Greenleaf had assigned for the first day. Jerry had read his assiduously, taking copious notes and underlining every third sentence. Curious, he looked over as the brown-haired girl removed hers from her folder, finding that it was highlighted and sticky-flagged within an inch of its life.

"Welcome, everyone," Professor Greenleaf said when they had all taken their seats. "This is _Law and Society_, so if you're looking for _Intellectual Property Law_, please cease and desist."

Jerry chuckled, but no one else did. He quickly ruffled his papers, not daring look at the brown-haired girl.

Professor Greenleaf made a short speech about how they were all there to learn collaboratively, and that they would be expected to engage in civil, well-reasoned, and intellectually honest debate. In order to foster a sense of community, they would begin with an icebreaker, introducing themselves by name, hometown, year, and the most interesting thing they did over the summer.

The first several students complied, revealing that they were mostly 1Ls and 2Ls, and had spent their summers traveling or working at pro bono clinics. Jerry wrote down all their names, determined to address them all correctly on the first try.

When the brown-haired girl's turn came, she stuck out her chin and spoke in a sweet, clear voice. "I'm Nan Blythe, my pronouns are she/her, and I'm from Kingsport. I'm a junior at the College and I spent the summer working as a Parliamentary Tour Guide in Ottawa."

Jerry rolled his eyes inwardly at the pronouns bit, which Prof. Greenleaf had not included in his instructions. Bit of a show-off, wasn't she?

He missed the next several names, but was ready when his turn came.

"I'm Jerry Meredith. I'm a 1L from Glen St. Mary, PEI. This summer, I was a youth delegate to the Conservative Party Convention in Vancouver."

Being selected had been one of the proudest moments in his life. Older delegates congratulated him and said what a wonderful thing it was to have young people participating in the process and representing Conservative values. He'd never been on an airplane before, but the Party had flown him across the country and put him up in the nicest hotel room he'd ever seen. It was intoxicating, being on the floor during votes and staying up late having good, nuanced debates with people who didn't need to be convinced that faith was a bedrock value, not a literary preference. Even Father, who wasn't much of a one for politics of any stripe, had told Jerry he was proud of him.

Now, back at Redmond, Jerry got nothing but polite nods of acknowledgement, though he thought perhaps the woman in the blue blazer at the end of the table smiled at him. Nan Blythe definitely did not, tucking in the corners of her mouth and looking as if she had smelled something disagreeable.

Introductions complete, Professor Greenleaf began going over the syllabus and assignments. Jerry followed along as best he could, transcribing instructions and caveats into his notebook with half his brain. The other half was wandering off to an angry place. What right did Nan Blythe have to be in this class? She wasn't even a law student. Jerry had worked hard and waited his turn and now that he was here, it was galling to find some jumped-up undergrad sitting at the table with him. It had never even occurred to Jerry to request that sort of permission when he was an undergrad, though, if he were honest, he might have given it a try if he had thought of it first. But Nan Blythe just walked in here like she owned the place when she didn't even deserve to be here. It irked him more than it should have.

With an effort, Jerry pushed all thoughts of Nan Blythe out of his mind. It didn't matter if she were here or not. This was the only course he had this semester that wasn't a basic 1L requirement, and he meant to make the most of it.

This admirable resolve lasted nearly until the end of the session.

"Government has a responsibility to protect members of minority groups from discrimination," Nan said in response to one of the blue-blazer woman's points. "If a business provides a service, it can't refuse to serve a particular customer and then hide behind arbitrary religious objections. Look at the Brockie case. It's clearly discrimination."

Jerry could not have resisted jumping in for anything in the world. "Our current anti-discrimination laws go too far," he said. "They don't take sincerely-held religious beliefs seriously enough. A Christian printer like Brockie with a sincere religious objection to printing stationery for a gay rights group should not have been forced to act in a way that violated his freedom of religion. _That's_ discrimination."

"Disagree," Nan said flatly.

Professor Greenleaf leaned forward, enthusiasm plain on his round face. "Follow that up, Miss Blythe. Does the business-owner have a right to act according to his religious beliefs?"

She thought for a moment, then lifted her chin and said, "In his church, he does. And in private life. But when you provide a service, you can't pick and choose who you will serve. What's to stop someone from saying their religion prohibits them from serving women?"

"That's disingenuous," Jerry shot back. "Slippery slope arguments are just a way of avoiding the specific case. The government shouldn't be able to force an artist to express something he doesn't agree with."

There were spots of color in Nan's cheeks, but her voice was prefectly calm. "And what happens when we aren't talking about stationery anymore? Can a religious restaurant owner ban a transgender person from using the bathroom? Can a religious pharmacist refuse to fill a prescription for birth control? Can a religious doctor refuse to perform an abortion?"

"Yes!" Jerry flared. "Forcing a religious doctor . . . that's outrageous! "

"So is denying a patient a legal medical procedure."

"They can refer her to another doctor."

Nan tilted _her saucy little chin_ with an air of determination.* "Not in PEI, they can't. There hasn't been a single abortion provider on the Island since 1982."

Another time, Jerry might have appreciated the challenge of the debate, but the shot at the Island made him seethe. It took tremendous effort to speak calmly. "The province still pays for them," he said carefully. "Islanders just have to come to Kingsport."

"_Just come to Kingsport?_ Even with the bridge, it's a day's drive!"

"Alright, alright," Professor Greenleaf said, waving his hands to interrupt the murmuring around the table. "This is a significant question and one we will return to often. How can the courts balance legitimate rights when they come into conflict? But we're out of time for today."

He dismissed them, his exhortations to complete next week's reading drowned out by rustling papers and clattering chairs.

Jerry packed his notebook very deliberately, refusing to seem ruffled. It wasn't that he wasn't used to defending conservative principles here in liberal Kingsport, where everyone assumed that you were a dumb hick if you were from a small town or if you were actually a Christian rather than just dressing up as one on holidays. But Nan Blythe had gotten under his skin and he didn't like it.

Unfortunately, she packed as slowly as he did, and it was becoming increasingly apparent that their faux-casual calm was going to lead them to the door at exactly the same moment. Jerry's hand twitched at his side, caught between his deep-seated impulse to hold the door for her and his frantic desire to be anywhere else on the planet. He dithered for a heartbeat, just long enough for Nan to step in front of him and open the door herself, letting it bang shut behind her.

* * *

What had Carl been expecting? A classroom building, perhaps? More beige walls and antiseptic carpet and overhead lighting? Definitely not an actual _house_.

But Pride House, the campus LGBTQ2SIA+ community center, was indeed a house: a low-slung bungalow that was old and shabby enough to look like it had grown rather than being built. There was a macrame hammock slung across the front porch and a huge rainbow painted on the exterior wall, relieving the general brown-ness of the place. The windows bore a colorful array of stickers and a large pink-and-blue striped sign that read TRANS LIVES MATTER.

Carl clutched a brochure, hesitating. It had been easier to be brave at the First Year Activities Fair, walking up and down the aisles of tables collecting flyers from dozens of clubs and student groups. It still took courage to approach the flag-draped table for Pride House, but there were so many people taking leaflets and moving along that it hadn't been difficult to dart in and out again. Standing here, planning to actually go inside . . . that was different.

"Are you here for the First Year Open House?"

Carl jumped, startled by the blue-haired girl who had appeared out of nowhere. She stood an inch or two taller than Carl, or perhaps that was just a side effect of the many-buckled Docs she wore over patterned leggings.

"Sorry," she grinned. "Didn't mean to scare you. You're welcome to come in if you'd like."

There were any number of acceptable answers to this invitation. _Thank you_ would have done very nicely, as would _Yes_ or _Great_ or _Looking forward to it_. Instead, Carl hastily assessed the options for immediate flight.

"It's alright," the blue-haired girl said. "You don't have to come in. But if you ever want to, you can. My name's Di. Di Blythe."

"I know you!" Carl blurted. This was certainly _not_ one of the acceptable responses. Carl scrambled to cover the mistake, turning a patriotic shade of red. "I mean, I know who you are. That is, you know my sister. Faith. Faith Meredith. Is my sister. Who you know. I'm Carl."

Di looked as if she were trying very hard not to laugh, which only deepened Carl's mortification. But she smiled warmly and said, "Nice to meet you, Carl. So you're John's roommate?"

"Yes," Carl said, sure of that much at least.

"I guess he has hockey tonight."

"Who?"

"John."

"I guess so," Carl said, not quite following.

"I'm one of the volunteers here," Di explained mildly. "You're a little early, but I could use some help setting up the snacks."

Grateful for this lifeline, Carl agreed that yes, snacks were important, and followed Di uncertainly up the porch steps.

*/*/*

Inside the creaking front door, Carl was greeted by an odor immediately recognizable as Eau de Church Basement.

It was oddly comforting. All week, Carl had moved from one brightly-lit, sharp-cornered space to another, the classrooms and dining halls and bathrooms all running together into a single environment of industrial neutrality. Even the biology lab didn't smell like anything except disinfectant.

Pride House was different. It had old, chipped linoleum and a bookshelf full of dog-eared paperbacks and a granny-square afghan slung over the back of a couch of indeterminate color. This was a place where meals had been served out of disposable aluminum trays and where water-stained signs taped to the kitchen cupboards made cheerful admonitions: "Use a mug, wash a mug!" There were fewer crosses and more rainbows, but other than that, the place was very familiar.

Carl followed Di, shaking hands when she introduced a short, soft-bodied person arranging markers and stickers on a table by the door.

"Nice to meet you Carl," they said, extending a purple-nailed hand. "Why don't you make yourself a nametag? Name and pronouns."

They pointed to their own chest, where a rectangular sticker read, "Ryn (they/them)."

Carl stared at their nametag for what was probably an impolite amount of time, though Ryn smiled kindly. There was something undeniably thrilling about meeting someone who used they/them pronouns, rather than just reading about them online.

Even with Ryn's example, Carl wasn't sure what to write until Di picked up a marker herself. "We used to have little stickers that said _she/her_ and _he/him_ and _they/them_," she explained, "but then what about neopronouns? So we just started letting people write their own."

She slapped a nametag over her breast pocket: "Di (she/her)" with little green stars dancing around the edges.

Carl selected a purple marker and wrote "Carl," hesitating a moment before adding, "(he/him)." Was that alright? Di gave a nod of a approval, so it must be, though it still felt awkward.

"Is that you, Di?" came a call from the kitchen. "I could use some help in here!"

They hurried through the hall and a room with a large table and a shelf full of board games, arriving in the kitchen to find an impressively tattooed woman unloading grocery bags onto the counter. Carl marveled at the design inked into her muscular arm, an intricate sleeve of geometric rosettes.

"They were all out of cheez puffs, so I got pretzels instead," she said, piling several bags on the counter. "Is that ok?"

"As long as there's something salty," Di said. "Carl, this is Valeria; Valeria, Carl."

Valeria gave a single nod, then passed Carl a bag of red plastic cups. "Put these out on the big table, will you?"

Di rolled her eyes at this gentle welcome, but Carl didn't mind. It was good to have something specific to do. It took only a moment to unwrap the cups and stack them, then return to the kitchen for bottles of soda and seltzer and juice. Di followed with bowls of pretzels and plates of cookies, arranging them with more attention to accessibility than presentation. A broad, black-bearded man with ear gauges swiped a giant M&M cookie on his way to check the sound system, earning himself an exasperated plea from Di to save the baked goods for the First Years, Eric.

By the time they were finished, Carl's classmates were starting to arrive, stopping by Ryn's table for a welcome and a nametag. First through the door was a pair of boys who made a beeline for the game shelf and began assessing the strengths and weaknesses of the collection. Most of the others straggled in alone, including a wispy girl with long, platinum hair whom Carl recognized from Intro to Biology. Her cheeks were decorated with flawless glitter tears that made Carl stare slack-jawed until she noticed and winked. Carl took refuge in a cup of orange soda, not knowing where else to look.

It wasn't just ordinary shyness. As more and more First Years arrived, Carl couldn't help but look at them with mounting distress. A good first impression was important, which is why Carl had dressed respectfully in jeans and a button-down shirt that would have won Jerry's approval but was more and more out of place here every moment. Di Blythe wasn't the only person in the room with the sort of haircut Carl had only ever seen on Instagram, and everyone seemed to have a certain something about them that Carl was miserably lacking. It was one thing not to feel cool enough, quite another not to feel queer enough.

Clutching the soda cup, Carl skirted around small groups of people getting to know one another. Perhaps it was time to ditch? Would Di notice? She was off chatting with the board game boys and had probably forgotten all about her brother's roommate. Still, staying less than an hour felt like cowardice, and Carl Meredith was _not_ a coward.

Slipping past a group of First Years ooo-ing and ahh-ing over Valeria's sleeve, Carl found the hallway and the All Gender bathroom at the end of it. That was just the thing. Regroup. Focus. Carl pushed the door open with a sigh of relief, only to jump back at the sight of the glitter-tears girl standing at the mirror touching up her lip gloss.

"Sorry!" Carl gasped. "I didn't know it was occupied!"

"No worries," the girl said cheerfully. "Come on in."

Her nametag identified her as Caela (she/her). She smiled at Carl through the mirror, her button nose crinkling as she held up her lip wand.

"Want some?"

"Me?"

Caela turned, showing off a dimpled smile that gave the lie to the silver sparkles streaming down her cheeks. "Sure, if you like."

Carl declined, but hastened to add, "It looks great though. Your makeup. Flawless."

"It does," she agreed. "I filmed a tutorial earlier and liked it so much I just kept it, even though this isn't really the right venue."

"You do makeup tutorials?" Carl asked, attempting to match her face to a YouTube channel.

"Yep. Need any tips?"

It was hard to know where to start. "I definitely need _something_," Carl said, stepping toward the mirror and frowning at the reflection.

Caela ran a look of frank appraisal up and down, taking in the adolescent haircut and the blue button-down and the ruby-red Chucks. Only the last received a nod of approval.

"You have beautiful eyes," she said, looking Carl full in the face. "I'd love to do something with your brows. But for now . . . may I?"

She reached upward, her slim hand pausing over the golden-brown hair until Carl gave her permission. Then she rumpled and distressed, pulling a travel-size hairspray from her purse to assist her. She spritzed and frowned, then spritzed again.

"There, how's that?"

Better, Carl admitted, marveling in the mirror.

"Now, the rest of . . . _this_," Caela said, gesturing gingerly toward the entire outfit. "Do you mind?"

Not at all, as it turned out. Caela rolled here and unbuttoned there, tucked and untucked artfully, and within three minutes had wrought a miracle.

"You need slimmer jeans," she said, adjusting a cuff. "But that's better, isn't it?"

Carl could only stare at the person in the mirror. Who could have imagined that sleeves rolled up faux-casually and a few simple tucks and unbuttonings could make such a difference?

"It's all a bit Niall Horan cosplay," said Caela, stepping back to critique her own work. "But give me a little more notice next time and we'll aim for more Troye Sivan."

"I _love_ him," Carl said, blue eyes wider than ever.

"Who doesn't?"

So casually. _Who doesn't?_ As if Carl had ever known anyone who did.

The bathroom door creaked, admitting the sound of a dozen simultaneous conversations and Eric, who smiled apologetically and disappeared into a stall.

"Do you want to go back to the party?" Caela asked.

Carl took one last look in the mirror and felt quite sure. "Yes. I do."

*/*/*

Carl was used to losing time. A minute could easily become an hour or a whole afternoon when spiders were weaving webs in fascinating patterns or epic dramas were playing out on ant-sized stages. Many a time, Jerry or Faith or Una had been forced to summon Carl back to the human world at supper time, muddy-kneed and reluctant to follow. Rosemary shook her head and said that Carl was just like Father, who had once become so absorbed in a book that he had forgotten all about a wedding and ended up having to officiate in his carpet slippers.

Tonight, it was people who captured Carl's attention and held it, one hour and another slipping by unnoticed. Caela introduced the board game boys, Reed and Lucas, who lived in her dorm. Carl returned the favor by calling Di over, feeling an absurd pride in Caela's effusive admiration of her hair. The pretty, curly-haired girl Di introduced as Delilah gave them a frosty greeting before she caught Di by the elbow and steered her away with a whispered confidence.

Eventually, Carl and Caela ended up on the squashy sofa together, talking and laughing over pretzels and soda. Carl learned that Caela was from Moncton and that she was studying computer science. It did not take long to observe that she would say whatever came into her head, though with a sort of blunt amiability that came off as refreshing rather than rude.

"So what's with the business casual?" she asked, leaning her head back against the afghan. "I take it you're not a Kingsporter?"

Carl smiled ruefully. "No. PEI. Rural PEI."

"Ah."

"I grew up in the church. My dad's a minister."

Caela grimaced. "Sorry."

"No, it's alright," Carl said quickly. "I like church."

"You do?"

"Yes."

"So, you're like a . . . gay Christian?"

She said it in the same tone she might have said _tropical reindeer_, though there was curiosity mixed in with the skepticism.

"Is that bad?" Carl asked.

"I guess not," Caela shrugged. "If it works for you. Though I thought I had it rough with _my_ dad, and he's only a mailcarrier."

"It's not like that," Carl protested. "My father loves me. My whole family is great, really. They know I'm gay and it's fine. It's just . . . complicated."

Caela raised a pinkie as she drank a long, eloquently silent sip that left Carl room to elaborate.

"My father's the kindest, gentlest person in the world. He's never even said a harsh word to me. It's just that our town is pretty conservative, and I never wanted to do anything that was _likely to hurt him in the congregation_."**

"Like breathing?"

"Like drawing attention."

"So you're closeted at home because your dad's congregation would _blame him if you did anything queer_?"***

Carl's face contorted in skepticism. Strictly speaking, that was true-ish, but it didn't really get to the substance of the experience. Plausible deniability smoothed an awful lot of sharp edges.

"I'm not closeted at home. I'm just . . . quiet."

"Hence the aggressive neutrals?"

"Blue isn't a neutral!"

"It is on a button-down like that. You looked like you were getting ready for your shift at the bank."

Carl couldn't say that she was wrong. Straight-leg jeans. Church shirts. The same unobtrusive haircut for ten years. The red high-tops were the only bit of flair Carl had ever worn anywhere other than behind a locked door.

"Are there any other queer people in your town?" Caela asked with a hint of contrition.

"Maybe, though I haven't met many. There's a lesbian couple who own their own lobster boat. They always come to the Tastee Freeze and ask how my summer's going and leave me a really good tip. I'm pretty sure the pharmacist at the drug store in the next town over is gay, but I never wanted to get him in trouble by talking to him. And I don't think I've ever met a trans person."

At this, Caela giggled, her dimple popping back into existence as she held out her hand for the introduction they had skipped earlier. "I'm Caela. Very nice to meet you."

"Oh!" Carl exclaimed, flustered into a blush. "I'm sorry. I mean, I didn't . . . I mean . . ."

Caela was still laughing. "No worries. Just shake my hand and we're square."

Carl took her hand, laughing along, buoyed by the enthusiasm of a new friend.

* * *

Notes:

*_Anne of Ingleside_, chapter 25

**_Rainbow Valley_, Chapter 28: "A Fast Day"

***_Rainbow Valley_, Chapter 25: "Another Scandal and Another Explanation" lightly paraphrased for tense

If you would like to listen to the University of King's College Chapel Choir (which includes students from Dalhousie and King's College in Halifax), they are "Kings-chapel-choir" on Soundcloud.

Extra thanks to all the Guest reviewers, especially the one leaving such lovely long reviews. I cherish those and they really do give me a little boost of energy to keep writing. Thanks so much!


	6. Grand Plans

**Grand Plans**

* * *

Saturday afternoon promised to be a lazy end to a hectic week, at least until Delilah turned those big blue eyes to Di and said, "Let's get tattoos!"

*/*/*

"Go slow," Di yelped, wincing a little as Delilah eased the plastic wrap away from her forearm.

"It doesn't hurt a bit," Delilah scoffed, rolling her own freshly-inked shoulder experimentally. She tossed Di's bandaging in the little trashcan under the sink and began to lather her hands with the unscented soap the tattoo artist had recommended.

Di rinsed her arm and held it out trustingly so that Delilah could soap it in tiny circular motions that mimicked the curves of the design. She did go slowly, fingers slipping over Di's skin in a hypnotic rhythm that left Di feeling a little faint.

"Now you do me."

Di obliged, rinsing and soaping the Chinese characters that the book on the counter at the tattoo shop had translated as "SURVIVOR." Delilah had slapped the page and declared it perfect. Di wished for a little of that same certainty in choosing her own design. She had long wanted a tattoo in a vague, someday-ish sort of way, but had never quite been able to commit to anything more permanent than a haircut. Last spring, she had spent a an endless afternoon on a beach blanket with Valeria, tracing the contours of all her many rosettes, admiring her confidence as much as her ink. But for herself? A tattoo was _forever_.

No, Delilah was right. What was the use in overthinking things? They were young and alive and didn't every experience shape the person you would always be afterward? Tattoos just made that visible.

Di had gone through the whole book twice while Delilah chatted brightly to the gruff artist inking her shoulder. In the end, she had settled on two interlocking Venus symbols on her inner forearm. Whatever else might come to pass, she felt sure of that much.

"You're all set," she said, patting Delilah's shoulder dry with a paper towel.

"You're such a dear," Delilah giggled, kissing Di on the tip of her excellent nose. "Last time I got a tattoo, I had no one to help me with it and that one was _much_ harder to reach."

"Oh really?" Di smirked. "Where is it?"

"I imagine you'll find it eventually."

Di grinned at that and let Delilah pull her into a long, slow kiss that kindled a breathless hope that _eventually_ might come sooner rather than later.

* * *

Gilbert Blythe rarely cooked. It wasn't that he didn't enjoy helping around the kitchen, but he was usually at the hospital during ordinary cooking hours. He scheduled his endless consults around early-morning surgeries and clinic hours and the lectures he delivered to eager neurosurgery residents, but there wasn't much time left over for anything but sleep. Sometimes not even that.

He made time, though. Gilbert could have spent this lovely September Sunday golfing, secure in the knowledge that Ed was on call in case anyone in the Maritimes had an aneurism or a traumatic spinal injury. Instead, he was delighted to make himself useful in the kitchen, peeling carrots and chopping onions to accompany the roast that Anne was preparing for Sunday dinner. It was taking him a very long time, not because he wasn't good with a knife, but because he kept stopping to watch his wife, who swayed and hummed beside him as she trussed the meat with a series of evenly-spaced criss-crosses. Her delicate fingers flitted from one neat knot to the next, strong and dextrous as they had been the first time he had seen her weave a daisy crown.

"You're very handy with that string, Anne-girl" he observed through a wry smile. "One might almost think you had a flair for geometry."

Anne laughed. That was always his aim. The sweet, silvery sound of her happiness had been the guiding light of his life since he was boy, and a day when he did not earn it was a day hardly worth counting.

"If this meal depends on my accomplishments in that particular field, I'm afraid we might as well order pizza."

Gilbert sniffed with mock-hauteur as he tipped a pile of carrots from his cutting board into a bowl. "I expect there's more than enough pizza-eating at college. Our young fry require vegetables."

"Extra peppers, then?"

The tilt of Anne's chin only made it easier to kiss her. Gilbert had no doubt that Anne would call off the roast and have a pizza party if it struck her fancy. Sometimes when the children were younger, she would throw up her hands and declare Sundae Dinner, emptying the freezer and heaping the dining room table with every half-used tube of sprinkles in the cabinets. Other times, Gilbert would come home late to find the aftermath of Movie Night, the children sprawled in sleep on the living room floor, surrounded by pillows and stray kernels of popcorn. Ingleside was always celebrating little anniversaries and no occasion was too inconsequential to observe with cake.

"Don't you know?" Rilla had said once when he had asked why the cut glass cake stand sported a towering confection frosted in vivid purple. "It's the Shrimp's half-birthday."

When the children were small, Anne had read submissions for the _Canadian Woman_ in between hockey practices and parent teacher conferences; more recently, she had risen through the ranks of the Kingsport Arts Council to claim the directorship. But no matter how busy she was, Anne was never so beholden to her responsibilities that she wouldn't set them aside to assist in the building of a cardboard fort or to lead an excursion to the park at sunset. When Gilbert's colleagues expressed surprise that anyone could have the energy to raise seven children, he only smiled, assuring them that the children were hard pressed to keep up with their mother.

"I'm meeting with Phil for the walk-through at the theatre tomorrow," Anne said arranging the carrots and potatoes around the roast in the pan. "And the Arts Council has put aside box seats for us for Saturday. Do you have any thoughts about dinner after the concert?"

Gilbert bit the inside of his cheek to keep a straight face as he said, "I was thinking we could take the kids out. They'd like that, right? Saturday night at the Symphony and then a celebratory dinner with the parents afterward?"

Anne arched a delicate brow in that inimitable way of hers, the copper question poised over eyes gone green in a flash. How he loved that look of challenge, ever since the moment she had cracked him over the head with her lunchbox in the Avonlea schoolyard.

"You want to spend Saturday night with the kids?"

"Sure. Why not?"

"Isn't it a special occasion?"

Gilbert hummed in put-on consternation. "Well, Phil and Jo's anniversary must be sometime around now, though I don't think we really need to observe it, do we?"

Anne slid the roast into the lower oven, lips pursed in a fetching pink pout. "Phil and Jo were married in June, as you know very well."

"Really? No, I'm very sure it was September. Remember, Rilla had just started nursery school?"

"I meant the first time. They always count it from the first time."

Anne turned toward the sink to wash her hands and Gilbert filled the space behind her, slipping his arms around her waist.

"I'm fairly certain it's an anniversary of some sort, though," he murmured close to her ear. "Isn't dinner with college students the traditional 29th anniversary gift?"

She leaned back into him and Gilbert had the satisfaction of enveloping her slim form with his body, smiling into the kiss she delivered when she turned in his arms. Water dripped down his collar when Anne reached to caress his face, but Gilbert did not mind. He would have made a joke about always having loved her sodden embraces best of all, but that would have meant he would have had to stop kissing her, which Gilbert had no intention of doing. She was his Anne, as dearly beloved today as she had been nearly twenty-nine years ago, when she stood beside him in the puffiest puffed sleeves that ever puffed and sealed their vows with a kiss. His Anne, molding her body to his as she melted against him, the years and the kitchen falling away as they . . .

The mudroom door opened, then quickly closed again. Anne pulled away from the kiss and Gilbert followed her gaze to the windows, only to glimpse Shirley retreating down the back ramp on the double-quick.

"Wait!" Anne called, flying from Gilbert's arms. "Sweetheart, come back!"

It took some coaxing, but she soon returned towing a sheepish Shirley, who muttered an indistinct apology.

"It's good to see you!" Gilbert said with genuine warmth, though he made a mental note to pick up where he left off once the kids were safely back on campus. "How are things at the old alma mater?"

Shirley must have been feeling particularly eloquent today, augmenting his shrug with a grunt.

"What classes are you taking this semester?" Gilbert asked, hoping that a question with a factual answer might fare better.

"It's a fixed program," Shirley said. "All the engineering students take the same classes."

"Which are . . ."

"Intro to Chemistry for Engineering. Physics. Linear Applied Algebra . . ."

"Goodness," Anne said with a smile. "They certainly do keep you busy! I hope you have time for some fun as well."

"Ken got me a spot on his intramural hockey squad. We play two nights a week."

"Excellent!" Gilbert beamed. He had so many other questions he wanted to ask — How's the roommate? Are you making friends? Are the courses difficult? Which is your favorite? — but Shirley wasn't in kindergarten. Come to think of it, he hadn't been much for answering those sorts of questions even when he _was_ in kindergarten. The others would prattle on endlessly about all the little intricacies of their small worlds, but Shirley did not like being badgered with chatter and preferred the company of people who _never tried to make him talk_.*

"Is Susan coming to dinner?" Shirley asked.

"Yes," said Anne. "But she's still at church. She said to tell you that she left the ingredients you wanted in the fridge."

Shirley was already reaching for his apron, which hung beside Susan's on a hook in the broom closet. When he slipped it over his head, Gilbert remembered the first time he had seen him wearing one: Shirley must have been eight or nine and Gilbert had come home early to find him standing on a stool beside Susan, one of her aprons doubled up and tied over his Habs jersey while he measured sugar into a bowl. Shirley had tilted his chin up, brown eyes half hesitant, half defiant. He'd looked so much like Dad that Gilbert could have laughed, but it was certainly not the moment for ambiguous merriment. Instead he had smiled blandly and asked what was for dessert.

He asked the same now.

"Mille-feuille," Shirley said, though it took Gilbert a moment to recognize it as French rather than mumble.

"I don't think I know that one," Anne said brightly. "A thousand . . . leaves?"

"Yes, layers." Shirley said, emerging from the fridge with a paper-wrapped pound of butter. "It's puff pastry with layers of crème pâtissière."

"Like a Napoleon?"

"Yes."

"Well it sounds wonderful," Gilbert said. "Do you need a hand with it?"

"No."

Gilbert swallowed his next question. Hounding never got anywhere, especially not with Shirley. He had Dad's quiet pragmatism layered over Anne's stubbornness, and Gilbert knew all too well that neither could be rushed into anything. Of course, it irked him a bit to be rebuffed so brusquely, but what could you expect from teenagers? Shirley would come around eventually. For now, Gilbert would leave him to his pastry and go set the table.

Turning to leave, Gilbert stepped aside to make way for Joy on her crutches.

"Hi, John," she said pleasantly. "Whatcha making?"

*/*/*

When the mille-feuille appeared after dinner in all its creamy glory, the gathered Blythes showered it with a round of praise. The layers were crisp and flaky, the vanilla cream silky smooth, and the icing the last word in icings. Anne declared that it was positively ambrosial and ranked it among the top five desserts ever concocted at Ingleside. John — yes, definitely _John_ — acknowledged these appreciations and then got down to the business of dissecting a slice in minute detail with Susan, their murmured assessment inaudible from the head of the table.

"Hey, Dad, can I pick your brain about something medical?" Joy asked as Gilbert accepted a cup of tea from Di on his other side.

Gilbert, who dearly loved to be asked his opinion, twinkled at her. "Of course! Anything you like."

"I've got this assignment for work," Joy explained. "The Red Cross is sponsoring an episode to teach kids about First Aid and we're supposed to pitch ideas for plots that would teach them useful skills."

"The Rescue Ducks are going to teach First Aid?" This from Jem, inviting himself into the conversation as he reached for a second slice of mille-feuille.

"Apparently. We're supposed to pitch ideas at this week's meeting and I was wondering what techniques you might recommend. Keep in mind that our viewers are under the age of eight . . ."

"Not _all_ of them," Jem grinned.

". . . at least maturity-wise, so we need to focus on ways small children could actually help in an emergency."

"Hmmmm," Gilbert said, giving the question due consideration. "I'd say the first thing is to teach them to call 911."

"Granted," Joy agreed. "But the Rescue Ducks are already first responders, so assume that's already happened."

"You could teach them how to stop a bleed," Jem said through a mouthful of pastry.

Di wrinkled her nose over her own teacup. "What? You mean teach a bunch of kindergarteners how to tie a tourniquet?"

"No, but 'put pressure on a wound' is good advice at any age."

"I can see it now: Lucky drenched in blood, singing the Wound Care song to the tune of _Twinkle Twinkle Little Star_."

Anne looked up from her conversation with Rilla, alert to any whiff of a spat between siblings. But the kids were all grown up and could look after themselves. Besides, Gilbert had things well in hand. Well, most things. He had noticed that Di was holding her left arm rather stiffly and meant to get to the bottom of that.

"It's not a bad idea to teach age-appropriate first aid for cuts and scrapes," Gilbert said reasonably. "Maybe show kids how to stop a nosebleed."

"Ducks don't have noses, Dad," said Joy.

"No, but they could treat a character who has one. Other mammals get nosebleeds, don't they?"

"I guess."

"What about bee stings?" Di added. "Or burns?"

Was that it? Had Di burned her arm somehow? No, they would have had the story of that before she was halfway through the door.

"You could teach them how them how to use an EpiPen," offered a quieter voice from Di's far side.

Nan worried a dollop of pastry cream with her fork, not looking up at any of them. How well Gilbert remembered teaching her that very lesson, her slim hand clutched tight around the cylinder, brown eyes round when he told her she had to push good and hard. No matter how vigilant they had been, there had still been accidents: a miscommunication with a server, a friend's parent who didn't understand cross-contamination. The last time he'd done it, she had been eleven, and he'd put on his Doctor Face to hide the internal screaming. Later, when he thought she was asleep, Nan had interrupted his muffled sobs, her little star-bright face shining up at him. "Teach me how to do it," she had said. "I can do it myself, Daddy."

"That's a good idea," Gilbert said thickly.

Jem opened his mouth, his hazel eyes gleaming in a way that promised a gruesome tale from the paramedic trenches, but Di cut him down with a razor glare. He gulped inelegantly, perhaps realizing that this particular audience might not appreciate whatever horror story he had been about to share.

"So . . . Dad," he said, in a desperate about-face, "what's the dress code for Saturday?"

"For the Symphony?" Gilbert asked.

"Yeah. Medium-fancy? Super-fancy?"

Anne had perked up her ears again. "You don't have to dress up, darling. Tie if you feel like it, but really, there's no dress code."

Gilbert, who knew very well that Anne had been trying on gowns all week, intervened. "I'll be wearing a suit," he said, leaving _and so should you_ unsaid but perfectly clear.

"Yes, but you'll be sitting up in the box with Mum where everyone can see you," Joy pointed out. "No one will be looking at us down in the audience."

"What are you wearing, Mum?" Nan asked.

"I haven't decided yet."

"I've made my case for the blue and silver taffeta," Rilla piped up. "It's by far your most elegant."

"I'm considering it, thank you, sweetheart. But everyone should wear whatever they like. I'm just glad that you'll all get a chance to see what Auntie Phil and I have been working on all this time. Now, is anyone bringing a plus one?"

If there was a more efficient way to disperse the offspring, Gilbert could hardly imagine it. He chortled at Anne over the table as the kids fumbled over one another in their haste to clear the table and flee. Only Di raised her voice above the clatter, asking, "Can we?"

Gilbert urged them to just pile the plates in the sink, promising that he would see to them later. He had eaten off of enough lone plates and hospital cafeteria trays to cherish the small joy of a sinkful of dishes in the aftermath of a family gathering. Might Walter be home by Christmas? Gilbert did not grudge Walter his travels, but an empty place at the table was like an unreachable itch that only got worse once you started thinking about it.

All around, the kids were tying up the loose ends of conversation: Nan and Joy in earnest conference with Anne over the matter of attire, Jem offering a word of contrition to Di, John in some furtive exchange with Rilla near the mudroom door. Then there were goodbyes and hugs and last assurances as Jem herded the Redmond contingent toward his car, brooking no protest from his brother.

"When all is said and done, doctor dear," said Susan, who had appeared at Gilbert's side with the remnants of the mille-feuille, "it's very nice to have them home."

Gilbert would have denied the sky was blue just for the fun of antagonizing Susan, but when she was right, she was right.

* * *

Notes:

*_Rilla of Ingleside_, chapter 3, "Moonlit Mirth"


	7. The Jolly Old Dawson Theatre

**The Jolly Old Dawson Theatre**

* * *

"Three more reps, Joy!" Sylvia shouted. "No way you do all three! No way you push through!"

Joy dug her fingers into Sylvia's forearms, focusing on keeping her feet firmly planted. Her hamstrings burned and her knees wobbled, but she kept her balance.

"Keep your knees in line with your toes!"

Sweat trickled between Joy's shoulders. Every muscle in her legs was screaming at her to make it stop, but she _had_ to finish this set. So close. Joy growled as she straightened out of the squat, letting the feral sound propel her to the edge of her endurance.

"So close, Joy! Gonna quit now? Two more . . . one left . . . great job!"

Sylvia's triumphant smile lit the gym. Lately, she had been pushing Joy to more and more reps with trash talk, which was as maddeningly effective as it was transparent. If there was one thing Joy Blythe could not abide, it was being told that she could not do something, and Sylvia knew how to use that to her advantage, dammit.

"See?" Sylvia said as she helped Joy lower herself onto a mat. "I knew you could do four sets! Pretty soon it will be five."

"I would rather chew gravel," Joy huffed.

Sylvia grinned and massaged Joy's calf, her strong, capable fingers breaking up the tension in her muscles. "You're getting so much stronger. Even just this summer, your stamina's so much better than it was."

It was true. It was also Sylvia's doing. Joy hated the gym with a visceral passion and would avoid it if left to her own devices. But physical fitness meant greater independence, which was perhaps the one thing that could motivate Joy to spend an hour grunting through leg presses and bicep curls. Even then, she knew she needed accountability, which was where Sylvia came in. Between their sessions, Joy used the stationary bike, which at least allowed her to get a guilt-free fix of _The Great British Bake Off _while she pedaled.

"Got anything going on today?" Sylvia asked, pushing Joy's outstretched leg until it stung.

"Meeting at noon," Joy sighed. "Gotta pitch those First Aid ideas. You?"

"I'm teaching a Zumba class at the senior center. And then axe-throwing quarterfinals at the bar tonight."

Joy chortled, relaxing into the stretch. "I can't believe they let you drink and then hand you an axe to throw. How does anyone survive till the finals?"

Sylvia reached for Joy's other leg, the constellation of stars tattooed on her forearm standing out silver against her dark skin. "It's like darts."

"It is _not_ like darts."

"Sure it is. You drink; you throw sharp things with your friends. It's fun."

"I'll take your word for it."

They ran through all of Joy's stretches, the burning sensations lessening as they wound down to wrist and ankle flexes. Sylvia chatted about her little niece and nephew, both of whom were big Rescue Ducks fans, though Joy didn't hold it against them. Joy filled Sylvia in on her own siblings' comings and goings, or at least what she had gleaned over Sunday dinner.

"I guess things are working out with Nan and Di's roommate," she observed as she rolled her neck. "And Di's got a new girlfriend. Delilah."

Sylvia snorted. "Like the temptress in the Bible?"

"That's what Susan said."

"Is she nice?"

"Haven't met her. I asked Nan and she just wrinkled up her face and wouldn't say anything."*

"That bad, eh?"

"I guess so. Di's bringing her along to the Dawson on Saturday, so I'll see for myself."

"And John's liking college alright?"

"Who can tell?"

Sylvia's laugh was a musical peal like the chiming of champagne glasses. She extended a hand and helped Joy to her feet, holding her steady as she found her balance. Joy was tired, but she also felt loose and limber from all the stretching. Maybe she really was getting stronger.

"You need a hand with anything?" Sylvia asked as she handed Joy her crutches.

"Are you offering to explain to my coworkers that it is stupid for a duck to keep a pet canary?"

"Awww, I like Sunny!"

"You would," Joy laughed. "I'm fine. Have fun with your drunken murder sports."

"You know I will. And you'd better find some way to have some fun before I see you again. I expect a full report. Of _fun_."

Joy grimaced. Was writing fun? It was supposed to be, though she was finding it harder and harder to get amped for it lately. Writing Rescue Ducks drained her enough that she never had anything left in the tank when she carved out an afternoon to work on her novel. Six abandoned outlines later, she was no nearer a satisfying plot than she had been at the beginning of the month. It was awful to sit in front of a blank screen with hours ticking by and nothing to show for them. Fun?

"I will," Joy lied.

*/*/*

In the sunny library at Ingleside, Joy arranged her desk in preparation for the Rescue Ducks weekly Skype call. The writers were scattered from Kingsport to Vancouver, which could be a pain in the ass, but truth be told, working remotely had been one of the perks that had made this job attractive in the first place. Joy did most of her writing solo or in a collaborative Google doc, but the whole team assembled twice a week for pitch meetings and feedback sessions. It was always a crapshoot as to whether everyone could get their cameras working and remember to adjust for time zone differences, but it did mean that Joy rarely had to spend more than four hours a week interacting with her colleagues face-to-face.

At five minutes to noon, Joy checked her camera and tested her microphone. Notes? _Check_. Waterbottle? _Check_. Squishy stress ball to throttle surreptitiously under the desk?_ Check_.

Six or seven minutes later, a familiar blooping announced the arrival of Higginson. He was a clean-cut man in his forties who papered over his general incompetence with an avuncular manner and above-average personal grooming.

"Joy! What a _joy_ it is to see you today."

Joy plastered on a smile as dusty as the so-called-joke. "Hello. How are things with the Red Cross?"

"Busy," Higginson said. "They want a special event episode rather than waiting for the next season, so we're looking at a quick turn-around. First drafts due by the end of the week."

The man was off his gourd, but Joy didn't have time to fret about it. The other writers were bubbling up now, surfacing and disappearing again with round, wet pulsations. By quarter after, they were all there: Ryan, Tyler, and the three Matts.

"Sorry I'm late," said Freckle-Matt. "It's so early here."

Joy nearly felt a pang of sympathy — it _was_ early in Vancouver — but no, wait, Beard-Matt was the one in Vancouver. Freckle-Matt was only in Toronto.

"I hope you've all got your pitches ready," Higginson was saying. "We're going to move quickly on this one. Get those kiddies saving lives sooner rather than later. Now remember, there are no bad ideas, we've got blue skies here. Let's hear first from . . . Ryan."

The called-upon Ryan appeared to be checking his notes. At least he had notes, that was something.

"I did a little research," he said, "and found that one of the most common procedures in emergency medicine is putting in stitches."

_Stitches?_

"I got stitches when I was a kid," Higginson agreed. "Couple of times. Took a puck to the face when I was eleven, right here."

_Stitches?_

"Can a duck hold a needle?" Tyler asked sensibly.

"They wouldn't need to," Beard-Matt interjected. "They have adhesives now. When I sliced my thumb open, they put this kind of glue on it. No needles or anything."

"Hmmmm . . ." Higginson appeared to be considering things carefully. "I'm not sure we want to be telling kids to glue their fingers together. The parents might not like it. Who's next?"

Hat-Matt put up a finger. "I've got one. One of the most important emergency medicine procedures is CPR. It's important in so many situations: heart attack, stroke, choking. It's also very cinematic. Really eye-catching. I was thinking that since it's ducks, we could do a water scenario. Maybe Monsieur Étoile nearly drowns and Mallard brings him back to life with CPR."

The nods and grunts of active listening layered over one another, but Joy interrupted. "That does sound dramatic," Joy said diplomatically, "but Monsieur Étoile is a sea star. I don't think he can drown. Do sea stars even have lungs? Or hearts, for that matter?"

"It's a cartoon, Joy," Hat-Matt said patiently.

"I'm just saying, if we're going to do cardiopulmonary resuscitation, we might want to pick a character who actually has a cardiovascular system."

"Do you really think the average four-year-old knows that much about starfish anatomy?"

The stress ball bulged in Joy's hand. "No. But I'm not sure the average four-year-old is jacked enough to do chest compressions either."

"We could still teach the theory."

"That's not . . ."

Higginson put up his hands for peace. "Blue skies, everyone, blue skies. We're just brainstorming here. What's _your_ idea, Joy?"

Joy had sifted through her family's suggestions and decided that, besides calling 911, basic wound care really did make sense. Kids cut themselves all the time, and teaching them what to do about blood might stop them from panicking at the sight of it.

"I was thinking we could teach them what to do if they get a cut," she said brightly, smiling to soften her previous objections. "The Ducks could help a squirrel with a cut paw. They put pressure on the cut till it stops bleeding, then show the squirrel how to wash and bandage it."

"Can we really show blood?" Freckle-Matt objected.

"It doesn't have to be gory," Joy said patiently.

"Hmmmm . . ." Higginson contributed most helpfully.

"I was scared of blood when I was a kid," Ryan added. "We don't want to traumatize our viewers."

Joy bit the inside of her cheek, willing herself not to ask how, exactly, they were supposed to show _stitches_ without blood. "Maybe kids would be less scared of blood if they knew what to do when someone got a cut," she said sweetly.

"Hmmmm . . ." Higginson said again. "Well, no idea is a bad idea. Tyler? What've you got?"

Everyone got a chance to contribute. Tyler with his defibrillators, Beard-Matt with his reduction of dislocated shoulders, Hat-Matt with his presumably bloodless tourniquets. In the end, they took a vote.

"Alright," Higginson said, clapping his hands together. "CPR it is. Start getting some ideas on the page and circulate them before end of the day Friday so we can go over them next Monday."

"Is that end of the day like 5:00 or end of the day like 11:59?" Freckle-Matt asked.

"Whichever. Just get it in."

Joy's finger hovered over the track pad just a centimeter away from hanging up.

"Oh, one more thing!" Higginson called. "I want you all to put your local comic-cons on your schedules. The studio wants a presence with swag and everything, and is signing you all up to appear on panels."

_Surely he jested._

"Joy? Yours is coming up pretty soon. King-Con. First weekend in November. Put it in your schedule."

Joy foundered. "Uhhh . . . ummm . . . oh, I think I'm busy that weekend."

"Nonsense," Higginson said, peering at her sternly. "It's great exposure. We want to encourage more kids to get involved in the arts, right? _Right?_"

"Right," Joy muttered.

"Good. Drafts on Friday. Ta-ta, folks."

Joy brought her finger crashing down on the track pad and slumped in her chair. _King-Con? Are you freakin kidding me?_ It's not that Joy had anything against King-Con, which was generally a fun way to spend an afternoon. She'd gone with Walter once when they were in high school to get their Ryan North books signed. No, it wasn't that she objected to the venue. It was just that it wasn't really a _Rescue Ducks_ kind of crowd. Sure, there would be artists and writers and animators there, but King-Con wasn't aimed at the under-8s. Her impending humiliation flashed before Joy's eyes: stuck at a table piled high with Duck swag between some gritty superhero comic and an author signing a pile of merch. _Really, there were limits!_

A message popped up, which Joy would have ignored if it had not been sent by _BHiggs_.

_Sorry for springing King-Con on you at the end there. But don't worry, you won't be alone. They're sending one of the costumed mascots to staff the table with you. Do you have a preference between Drake and Mac?_

* * *

"You know, the jade curtain really was an excellent choice," said Phil Gordon-Blake. "Red curtains in theatres are passé, but I never in my life could have decided between the jade and the cobalt."

Anne laughed, reaching out to brush a fingertip against the lush pile of the velvet. She had worried that a green curtain might skirt too close to Scarlett-O'Hara-in-drapes, but there was an undertone of teal that tipped it toward Atlantis instead.

"When in doubt, my motto is _go green_! Besides, I've never quite recovered from the time we accidentally painted the Avonlea Hall that frightful shade of blue."

"The cobalt would have been lovely, too," Phil assured her, "but if we must cop to mottos, mine is _the client is always right_."

"Very convenient for you. What do you do when they can't make up their minds?"

Phil shrugged. "I teach them my stabbing trick."

All around them, stage hands were rushing to and fro, setting up risers for the chorus and music stands for the orchestra. The bustling energy thrilled Anne to her fingertips, electrifying her with the flustered joy that tended to overtake her on dress rehearsal days. It had been a long road to this moment, but it was nearly time to harvest the fruits of her labor.

Phil frowned down at her clipboard, rose-red lips puckered in thought as her _modish little shoes_ clicked against the stage of the refurbished Dawson Theatre.** Phil's firm, Gordon Restoration, had renovated historic buildings all over Canada, from the Victorian mansions of Winnipeg millionaires to the jewelbox churches tucked away in sleepy little seaside towns. The Dawson Theatre was one of her triumphs. The art-deco interior retained all its original charm, touched up with fresh paint and gilding, while the seats had been reupholstered in decadent jade velvet to match the custom curtain. They had made updates, too, adding ramps on either side of the stage and accessible seating in the orchestra. At last, it was a space worthy of the top talent that the Kingsport Arts Council, with Anne at its helm, had been working so hard to attract.

"The structural reports are all good," Phil said, referring to her notes. "There are a few things left on the punch list and I'm sure it'll keep growing once the performances start. You never can tell how everything will function until it's up and running at full capacity, but I've tested all the systems, and I think we're in good shape."

"The roof is finished?"

"Down to the last shingle."

"And the chandelier?"

"Sound as a bell."

"What about the washrooms?" Anne asked. She had originally envisioned refurbishing the sumptuous 1920s dressing rooms attached to both the men's and women's toilets, but she and Phil had decided together that it would be better to reconfigure the space entirely, creating several individual gender-neutral washrooms and a nursing room for parents and infants. The changes meant that they were cutting it close to the wire in terms of time as well as budget, not to mention public opinion, which Anne was sure she would hear aplenty. It made her nervous, but Anne considered herself an ally and was bolstered by Phil's approval.

"The ground level washrooms are good to go," Phil assured her, "and I'm off to check the ones in the balcony as soon as we're done here."

"You've really done a splendid job, Phil," Anne said, hands clasped beneath her chin as she looked out over the auditorium. "The whole Council agrees."

"It's your baby, Anne. You dream it; I build it. Or re-build it, I suppose."

Anne slipped her hand through the crook of Phil's elbow as they descended the ramp at stage left.

"How are the boys?" she asked.

"Doing fine," Phil assured her. "Simon's teaching grade two this year, which he enjoys much better than grade five. And Jacob's getting pretty serious about Alyson. They're moving in together when his lease is up."

Anne laughed. "Can it be true? Why, it was only yesterday that Jacob was teaching Joy and Jem how to build sandcastles, wasn't it? And now he's moving in with his girlfriend!"

"We're getting old, I'm afraid."

"_The only part of me that feels old, is the ankle I broke when Josie Pye dared me to walk the Barry ridge-pole in the Green Gables days_," Anne said. "_I have an ache in it when the wind is east. I won't admit that it is rheumatism, but it does ache._"***

She ended with a sigh. With Simon in Toronto and Jacob in Winnipeg, Phil and Jo only saw them a few times a year. Her own children were starting their own lives, and it was too much to hope that they'd all end up staying in Kingsport. They'd gotten Jem back, at least for a little while, though it did not take a prognosticator to see that he'd be off again as soon as he could. Walter might return or he might not, though Anne rather suspected that Kingsport could never satisfy his wanderlust. The others might scatter as well, following jobs and partners to the ends of the earth. But for now, they were close by — most of them, anyway — and Anne would have the great joy of sharing the Dawson with them.

"Is Jo coming to the opening on Saturday?" she asked, hugging Phil's arm close.

"She wouldn't miss it for the world."

"I've put aside_ Cabaret_ tickets for you as well. We've still got a few months to get ready for that, but sales have been splendid. We're already close to selling out the Friday and Saturday shows."

Phil dimpled, looking for all the world like a naughty toddler rather than a dignified businessowner whose fiftieth birthday was behind her. "Is Kingsport ready for _Cabaret_?"

"We are now! Just think, Phil, a real, international touring company! They would never have booked a stop here if it weren't for your renovations."

"That isn't precisely what I meant," Phil said, biting back laughter. "I meant, well, you didn't want your first big production to be something a little less ominous?"

"_Cabaret_ is a classic," Anne sniffed. "Besides, the only other touring company that was interested was _Peter Pan_, and I haven't been able to convince our insurance that we're ready for flying rigs yet."

Phil threw back her head and cackled. "One thing at a time, honey! Let me make sure the washrooms work properly before I install the trapeze!"

They passed through the doors to the foyer where the grand staircase and chandelier had been restored to all the glory of the jazz age. When Anne had taken over the presidency of the Kingsport Arts Council, the poor decrepit Dawson was a shabby old dame dreaming of her glory days. The Kingsport Symphony had stuck by her, giving quarterly performances that were really very good musically speaking, even if it was difficult to convince patrons to pay for a night's entertainment that might involve inadvertently discovering a rotted-out seat bottom or a less-than-trustworthy banister. Anne had instituted a policy of generous refunds and set out to raise money for a full restoration. It had taken several years, but between her dogged canvassing and Phil's excellent taste, the Dawson was back in top form and ready for her closeup.

Anne led Phil over to the bar, where a young man was stocking the wine rack with the Maritimes' finest vintages.

"Is that the currant wine I've heard so much about?" Phil asked, pointing to a bottle with blossoms bursting from the label.

"It is! We promised our donors that we'd support small businesses. Angus, can we have a couple of glasses? And some of the Lone Willow?"

The bartender set out a pair of stemless tumblers with facets that echoed the chandelier and poured generous servings of a red wine so bright and cheerful that Phil couldn't help smiling.

"This is from Diana and Fred?"

Anne nodded. "I told her we'd always be their best customers. She took me on a tour of the currant bushes last time we visited."

It was awfully difficult to make a living growing potatoes these days, but the Avonlea farmers were resourceful people. Sometimes too resourceful, as in the case of Judson Parker, who had _rented all the road fences of his farm to a pharmaceutical company to paint advertisements on_.**** But the Avonlea town council had put a stop to that on the grounds that there was more money in picturesque tourism. They had the whole village declared a historic district so that no one could so much as replace a window without getting a mountain of permits first.

The people of Avonlea had gotten creative about making a living under the new rules. Davy and Millie had turned Green Gables into a "Farm Camp" where city parents would pay $750 a week for their kids to milk cows and weed tomatoes in an internet-free environment. Andrews Heirloom Apples was also a going concern, especially since Ralph and Dora had bought out the Blythe orchards after Gilbert's father passed. Fred and Diana Wright had really leaned in to the whole pastoral thing, raising currants and cherries that they processed into the sort of preserves and pies that were as Instagrammable as they were delicious. The wine was a relatively new venture and Anne was determined to make it a success in Kingsport, where a tasty product with a twee story could get you a good writeup on a food blog or a travel magazine. Maybe they'd make it a special when _Cabaret_ opened.

"To Lone Willow Farm," Anne said over the clinking of glasses.

"To the jolly old Dawson Theatre," Phil added. "Long may she sparkle."

If it was true that _bright red drinks tasted twice as good as any other color_, it was also true that bright red drinks consumed beneath a crystal chandelier with a good friend on the eve of your mutual triumph tasted ten times better.*****

* * *

Notes:

*_Anne of Ingleside_, Chapter 37: "After that Diana talked only to Susan about her, since Nan merely nodded when Delilah's name was mentioned. "Just jealousy," thought Diana sadly."

**_Anne of the Island_, Chapter 4, "April's Lady"

***_Rilla of Ingleside_, Chapter 1, "Glen Notes and Other Matters"

****_Anne of Avonlea_, Chapter 14: "A Danger Averted," substitute "pharmaceutical" for "patent medicine"

*****_Anne of Green Gables_, Chapter 16: "Diana is Invited to Tea with Tragic Results"


	8. On the Job

**On the Job**

* * *

The best thing about working at The Cellar was the free food. No, scratch that. The best thing was that for one shift out of every three, Faith got assigned to register duty and could muscle her way through a chapter of organic chemistry between card swipes. But besides that, it was definitely the free food. Redmond Dining Services policy said that any student worker who pulled a four-hour shift at one of the various campus eateries was entitled to a twenty-minute break, free fountain drinks, and a meal that couldn't include any packaged foods. At The Cellar, that meant a small pizza with one topping, though Faith had worked there long enough to know that Gina, the manager, didn't really care what sort of pizza you made yourself as long as you stayed after closing to help take out the trash.

Thus, Faith felt no compunction whatsoever as she piled a large round of pizza dough with as many toppings as it could handle. One half disappeared under pepperoni and olives, while the other got peppers, onions, mushrooms, and a sprinkling of broccoli to make it healthy.

"You going on break, Faith?" Gina asked, poking her grizzled head around the corner of the oven.

"In about fifteen minutes, if that's ok."

"Sure, sweetie, just prep me five or six slabs before you go, ok?"

"Aye, aye, captain."

Faith slid her bespoke pizza onto the oven's conveyer belt and then headed for the prep fridge to grab half a dozen balls of pre-measured dough. Once they were stretched and sauced and sprinkled with cheese, you could just stick them in the fridge and add toppings quick as a wink to meet demand. Faith was an old hand by now, though she had fallen out of practice over the summer. She stretched the dough between her fists, risking only a small toss now and again.

"You're good at that," said one of the new first years, smiling shyly over a sauce-stained apron.

"Just practice," Faith shrugged. "Here, you take one and I'll show you how."

With two working together, they had eight slabs prepped by the time Gina shouted, "Order up for Meredith!" That was good; they'd be more than set for the midnight rush.

Faith coaxed her bubbling pizza into a box and cut it, then reached under her apron for her phone.

_You on your way? _She typed, balancing the pizza on the edge of the counter as she filled a cup with root beer.

_Yep. We'll be there in 5._

We? Who's we?

Well, five minutes was five minutes and that's what orgo study apps were for.

Faith pushed through the swinging door that separated student-workers from student-customers and went to claim her usual booth. Sinking onto the vinyl seat with a sigh, she propped her left foot up on the opposite bench. The ankle was doing a lot better these days, but still, after a hard practice this afternoon and then being on her feet all evening, it did ache a bit. She reached down and loosened the ties of her brace, giving the ankle a few minutes to breathe, then fired up her app.

_Hydroxyl, methyl, carbonyl, carboxyl . . ._

Faith was still muttering her way through the polar properties of the various functional groups when Carl bounced up beside her, accompanied by a girl wearing cobalt blue eyelashes. He was fairly buzzing.

"Hi, Faith! This is my friend Caela. Caela, this is my sister I was telling you about."

Faith gave a nod of friendly greeting, moving her foot so they could sit.

"Sorry," Faith said, "I didn't know you were bringing company. Pepperoni and olives alright for you, Caela?"

"Sure. Thanks." Caela slid in beside Carl, who was already snaking a veggie slice out of the box.

He looked well, Faith thought. Chipper and enthusiastic, with a good appetite and a new friend at his side. That was a relief. A year ago, she'd sat in in this very booth across from a wan, homesick Una who had struggled to choke down even a single bite of pizza. It had all been too overwhelming: the roommate, the classes, the assignments, the lack of structure. Faith had said encouraging things, but it hadn't helped much.

"Classes going alright?" Faith asked lightly.

"Oh, yes! Caela has Biology with me, and I'm getting along alright in Statistics and Chemistry. I'm rubbish at French, though."

"How's the roommate?"

Carl chewed his pizza thoughtfully. "I don't really know. He doesn't talk to me."

Faith's sense of danger tweaked. If this roommate was trouble for Carl, she didn't care whose brother he was. "He's not _hostile_, is he?"

Carl's eyes went round. "No! Oh, no, nothing like that, Faith. He's just quiet. I mean, he talks to me _sometimes_. Like once he came home and asked why I was hanging out of his window."

"Ummm . . . why were you hanging of out his window?"

"I caught a spider and I couldn't just fling it out into open air. There's a maple tree with a branch that hangs near John's window and I was just trying to release it safely."

Caela snorted, throwing a hand over her mouth to keep from spraying food. "A spider?"

"Always with the spiders," Faith said, sighing theatrically. "He used to let them crawl around his plate at the supper table."*

"Really? My mother would have had a fit."

Carl flicked a glance at Faith and she gave a tiny shrug. It was Carl's story, too, and he could tell it however he wanted, or not.

"We were raised by our grandmother's cousin," he said carefully. "She didn't notice much."

"A good thing, too," Faith said breezily. "Lucky she didn't bother cleaning our rooms. Carl always had a snake or a toad or a rat somewhere. Usually in his bed."

"I never brought a toad to bed," Carl protested over Caela's chortling. "They don't really like to be cuddled."

"And rats do?"

"As a matter of fact, yes."

They'd never been official pets, the sorts with cages and veterinary appointments. Just creatures Carl had picked up here and there and kept for an hour or a day before releasing them again. Faith had never really understood that — she tended to get very attached to her pets. But Carl had_ a sort of freemasonry_ with all little creatures.** He lived with them and among them, not as owner and pet, but as fellow-mortals who might come and go as they pleased with mutual admiration.

The rat-talk reminded Faith that she had forgotten to ask Carl how his job was going. "How are you liking the lab?"

"I've only done the training so far," Carl admitted. "My first real shift is tomorrow."

"Are you really sure you want to work in an animal lab?"

The pay was better than Food Services and it made sense to get a job related to your field of study if you could manage it. Still, Faith had been surprised when Carl told her that he had taken an animal management job in one of the biology labs. The rats there weren't pets of any sort.

"I'm not squeamish," Carl insisted.***

"Carl, you've been a vegetarian since you were nine."

"Well, maybe if you hadn't named the chickens we ate for Sunday dinner . . ."

"One time! That was one time! Besides, it's not like I named a chicken from the grocery store. Adam was my pet!"

Caela choked on a bit of cheese. "You _ate_ a pet chicken?"

"_I_ did not," Faith said loftily. "And if I remember correctly, Una took my side as well. But Carl and Jerry certainly _did_ eat him."

"The thing is," Carl explained, "Aunt Martha was raised on a farm. She didn't really differentiate between pets and livestock. One day she needed to serve a nice dinner to a visiting minister and . . . well . . ."

"Alas, poor Adam," quoted Faith.

Caela had covered her mouth with both hands, though whether to conceal horror or hilarity was unclear.

"If it makes you feel any better, Faith, I felt so guilty about eating Adam that I've never had a bite of meat since."

"I thought you said you liked to fish for eels?" Caela said, perplexed.

"I'm not very good at it," Carl said comfortably. "Besides, I only ever catch and release. Except when I go crabbing. I don't like to kill any living thing, but green crabs are an invasive species and a menace. They prey on juvenile fish and clams and they're murder on eelgrass habitats and . . ."

"_Run,_" Faith advised Caela in a stage whisper. "When he starts talking about eelgrass, it's time to save yourself."

But Caela had no notion of running. "How do you catch green crabs?"

"It's easy. You don't even need special equipment. Just a mesh bag and an old slice of lunchmeat. Or hotdogs. Really any sort of meat that's gone off a bit. Put the meat in the bag with a rock and toss it over the edge of a dock at high tide and they'll swarm."

Faith shuddered. She had never really paid very specific attention to whatever it was Carl actually _did_ when he was off messing about with ants or beetles or eels, but the thought of crabs swarming under the dock made her shiver. And swear off swimming forever. Caela did not seem similarly afflicted. Carl was only too happy to let her egg him on with questions about crab habits and habitats. They could surely fill Faith's allotted twenty-minute break three times over, so she decided to leave them to it.

"Gotta get back to work," she said, sliding out of the booth. "Nice to meet you, Caela."

"Nice to meet you, too!"

"Thanks for the pizza," Carl said, taking a third slice.

When she reached the kitchen door, Faith stopped to look back at the table. Carl was still explaining something with broad hand gestures and intermittent laughter. Faith would have sworn she wasn't the worrying sort, but she still felt a swoop of pride, like a mother bird who has pushed a fledgling from the nest only to watch him catch an updraft like an old pro. Smiling, Faith adjusted her hairnet and went back to work.

* * *

The navy blue shirt of Jem's uniform was too tight across his shoulders. Well, maybe not. But hunched over like this, with molecular diagrams swimming in loops across the page and his knee jiggling uncontrollably under the table, it certainly felt too tight. He unbuttoned the collar, but it didn't help.

It had been a quiet shift. That was good, as it meant that the Redmond students were getting through a Tuesday night without drinking themselves stupid or injuring one another, but it was also terrifically boring. Tori had fallen asleep on the break-room sofa an hour ago, a magazine rising and falling on her chest as she snored; Zach was lost in a game on his phone, cursing under his breath and flicking for all he was worth.

Jem was studying. Trying to, anyway. Was there anything more tedious than memorizing the various classifications of enzymes and their properties? It should be easier, shouldn't it? It was just names. But he kept mixing up his lyases and his ligases and oh forget it, this was hopeless.

Exhaling in frustration, Jem leaned back in his chair and rolled his shoulders under the clinging cotton. Maybe a nice, brisk walk would help.

He was just about to tell Zach that he was going for a jog around the ambulance bay when an incoming text lit up his phone. Jem snatched it up, glad of the distraction. He grinned at the picture of Rafi celebrating what looked like a fine, clear dawn out on the water by making an obscene hand gesture against the jewel-bright sky.

_!Ojalá estuvieras aquí, machote!_

Jem smirked and texted back: _Mantén los ojos puestos en el carretera, shithead._

There might be an ocean between them, but the reply was nearly instantaneous: ¿_Qué haces despierta tan temprano?_

_No es temprano. Es muy tarde. Trabajando en la ambulancia._

_Vaya con dios, mi compa._

_A ti tambien._

They must just be setting out if Rafi still had a strong signal. Jem wasn't really the praying type, but he closed his eyes for a heartbeat and wished his friends fair winds and a following sea. And _buena suerte_. Bunches of it.

Just the thought of turquoise waves stretching out to the horizon soothed some of the tension from his limbs. Not that it was relaxing work out there. Far from it. But it was _purposeful_, you know? None of this dicking about with oxidoreuctases. There were people in need and you had a strong back and a seaworthy boat and you just_ helped_.

He'd still be there now, if not for Rafi. No, that wasn't fair. He would never have gone in the first place if he hadn't heard Rafi give a rousing lecture about the migrant crisis in the Mediterranean. People were drowning, _lots_ of people, and even the people who agreed that it just shouldn't be allowed weren't doing enough to stop it. Jem had sat in the darkened auditorium, so electrified by Rafi's words that he could feel them vibrating down to the marrow of his bones. He was supposed to start medical school in a few weeks, but that didn't matter a lick. He was already a paramedic and a lifeguard and that was enough to help _now_, even if the work that Rafi and his friends did pushed the boundaries of legality. It was _right_, though, and that's what mattered. When the lights came back up, Jem had pushed his way through the crowd to the stage and volunteered on the spot.

That was a year and a half ago. Jem had deferred his med school admission and explained as best he could to Mum and Dad. They'd understood why he had to go, hadn't they? Nicole sure hadn't. She'd put her foot down and given Jem an ultimatum: go to medical school and get engaged, or else don't bother keeping in touch. Jem had sort of hoped she was kidding, but she wasn't.

That had been a wrench at the time, though Joy and Walter hadn't been quite as cut up over it as Jem was. Joy had even taken the three of them out for a celebratory pint.

_"You really never liked Nicole?" Jem asked incredulously for the third time. "Neither of you?"_

_Walter's lips twisted in a frown as he contemplated his glass. "She wasn't your other half, Jem. Not even a sixth."_

_"You might have mentioned that before now," Jem grumbled._

_"I did!" Joy insisted. "Repeatedly! You're just so determined to think the best of everyone that it didn't penetrate your thick skull."_

_"I was going to propose, you know."_

_Walter had blanched at that, but Joy jostled him with her elbow. "We would have stopped you, wouldn't we, Walt?"_

_Walter shrugged, giving Jem the impression that without Joy around, Walter wouldn't have stood in his way no matter what fool thing he had decided to charge off into. In any case, they had both given their blessing to Jem's European expedition, Joy with enthusiasm and Walter a bit wistfully. They'd toasted and talked and by the end of the night, Nicole was already receding into history._

So he had gone. Left Canada and Nicole and the family, and flown to Barcelona with a backpack and a woefully inadequate vocabulary. A bit of training with the other volunteers and then off to sea, eager for sure, but only half-prepared for what lay ahead.

Jem's eyes fluttered shut, and just for a moment, he was back aboard the _Abrazo_. Alarm horns blaring and intercom crackling — _!todos a cubierta!_ — as they readied the boats for launch. Helmet strap tight, harness fastened, double-checking the piles of safety-orange life jackets, making sure they had enough child-sized vests. Rope? _Check._ Backboard? _Check._ Warming blankets? _Check._ Rafi slapping his back — _vaya con dios, mi compa_ — and then over the side with the pilot and the other paramedics on Team B, down to the waterline and speeding off into the blue . . .

Jem startled awake.

Coffee. That's what he needed. Coffee and then he'd get back to wrangling isomerases and hydrolases and whatever other infernal ten-dollar words the textbook threw at him. He'd recite them all twenty-one times, just like he and Walter used to do when they were kids memorizing _transubstantiationalist_ out of the dictionary just for the fun of it.**** Jem's hand had already moved toward his phone to text Walter — _got a new word for you: hexokinase_ — before he remembered. How odd to have Walter out of reach. Even when they'd been apart last year, he'd always checked in regularly. Now he couldn't and it was just . . . just odd. Jem shook off a little prickle that had nothing to do with the shirt. A few more weeks and Walter would be back in the mundane world, as much as he ever was. That would be better.

The phone was already in Jem's hand, so he texted Joy instead. She always seemed to be up, whatever the hour, and was hardly ever away from her computer. There had been times in Spain when he'd come ashore needing to talk to somebody — really talk, not just get blasted with Rafi and the rest of the crew — and she'd always been there, never more than a thought away, like some guardian angel hovering in the iMessage ether.

_Hey do you have plans for after the symphony?_

The little gray ellipsis popped up immediately. _Nope. You?_

_Let's get a drink. Catch up a bit. You can fill me in on what's new with you._

_I'll save you some time: nothing._

_My treat._

_Ok fine._

_Good. See you Saturday. __❤️_

In the meantime, coffee. The pot Jem had made at the start of the shift was still half full and he poured a generous stream into one of the chipped Redmond Emergency Services mugs. Just a few sips and he'd be able to carry on. Strong arms and thick heads were a dime a dozen, but doctors willing to put their necks on the line? Well, that was why Jem was here, doing battle with biochemistry, wasn't it?

"Want some coffee, Zach?" he asked.

Zach opened his mouth to reply, but was cut off by the buzz of a call coming in over the intercom.

"This is dispatch. Ambulance, please proceed to Spofford Hall room 302. Caller reports a roommate ETOH."

Before the dispatcher had finished, Jem was already at the door, reaching for the keys. Coffee had nothing on adrenaline. It had always been that way out on the water, too. Long, long stretches of boredom and then, all at once, the very air around you came alive and there was nothing in the world except the job and the person right in front of you. Jem felt limber and quick, the navy blue shirt moving with him instead of fighting back.

"Your turn to drive," he said, tossing the keys to Zach. "Come on, Tori, we've got drunken freshmen to rescue!"

* * *

Notes:

* "Carl was especially happy because he had two most beautiful spiders crawling around his supper plate." _Rainbow Valley,_ Chapter 14: "Mrs. Alec Davis Makes a Call"

**_Rainbow Valley_, Chapter 4: "The Manse Children"

*** "Carl's letters are always full of jokes and bits of fun. They had a great rat-hunt the night before he wrote—spearing rats with their bayonets—and he got the best bag and won the prize. He has a tame rat that knows him and sleeps in his pocket at night. Rats don't worry Carl as they do some people—he was always chummy with all little beasts. He says he is making a study of the habits of the trench rat and means to write a treatise on it some day that will make him famous." _Rilla of Ingleside_ Chapter 27: "Waiting"

****"What was that word you said to Fred Elliott, Little Jem dear?" asked Susan, when the dismembered pig had been found and the money counted.  
"Transubstantiationalist," said Jem proudly. "Walter found it in the dictionary last week . . . you know he likes great big _full_ words, Susan . . . and . . . and we both learned how to pronounce it. We said it over to each other twenty-one times in bed before we went to sleep so that we'd remember it." _Anne of Ingleside_, Chapter 19

If anyone would like to beta read my Spanish, please send me a PM! (Especially Rafi's — Jem is an intermediate speaker, so it's ok if he makes some of the same mistakes I do :))

Thanks to flavia and all my guest commenters. I see you and appreciate you! Thank you for the lovely, long review, recent Guest!

Hi KatherineWithAC! I was hoping you would turn up for this one! Yes, you are right: Joy has cerebral palsy from a birth injury. I have not seen Green Gables Fables, but it sounds like lots of fun! I am glad you are enjoying Di and apologize for giving her a _terrible_ girlfriend, but I will make it up to her. Are you familiar with the labrys flag? I have plans for Sylvia and her axe-throwing pals (and probably some better tattoos for Di!). Lots more Carl coming your way soon!


	9. You'll Regret This in the Morning

For Excel Aunt, who wanted a longer chapter.

* * *

**You'll Regret This in the Morning**

* * *

Di woke pressed up against the wall next to her bed. At least, most of her did. The right arm was going to take a while longer, all heavy and dull as if it were filled with sand. It was itchy, too, the skin red and peeling around the interlocking Venus symbols.

Di stretched, wincing at the crick in her neck. To be perfectly frank, dorm beds were too small to share comfortably. That went double for trying to share with Delilah, who sprawled and stole covers, her sugar-brown curls staking claim to all the pillows. That was alright. All Di had to do was take the side by the wall so she didn't end up on the floor. Again.

It was a challenge in the morning, though. Somehow, Delilah had arranged her schedule so that she never had class before noon, which meant that Di had to extricate herself from bed like a secret agent just to get to Sociology on time. Let Delilah sleep. Peeling back the sheets as gingerly as possible, Di wriggled down to the end of the bed, holding her breath when Delilah snuffled and threw out an arm to claim the vacant space.

Di smiled fondly. True, Delilah had her own bed just two floors up, but she spent as little time as possible with her suitemates. According to Delilah, Sara and Ying laughed at her whenever they thought she couldn't hear, and were forever interfering with her belongings. Poor girl. To overcome so much to get herself to Redmond, and then be stuck with roommates who picked on her! Di had offered to storm right over to the Housing Office and give the staff a piece of her mind, but Delilah had placated her with kisses and moved her toothbrush to suite 417.

The arm was coming back now. Di winced at the bristling nerves as she scrounged under the desk for her phone. It should have been charging, but Delilah had claimed the cradle for herself. She must have knocked Di's phone onto the floor accidentally, too. _Shit._ Only 13% charged.

Di tiptoed to her closet. No need to open the door, which could never actually contain the explosion within. It wasn't that Di didn't have style, it was just that she had all of them. Today, she felt whimsical but also sleepy, resulting in leggings and an oversize pink sweatshirt printed with tiny, sunglasses-wearing hot dogs. Mum always said that redheads couldn't wear pink, but the dictum was silent on the subject of blue-haired people.

"Just a minute!" Nan called when Di thumped on the bathroom door.

"I need to brush my teeth!"

"Just a minute!"

Nan emerged, not just showered but styled as well, from the tips of her mary janes to the pin-straight hair she could only have achieved with a thorough blow-drying. She was even wearing mascara.

"Wait for me!" Di implored, ducking into the bathroom to dash through her ablutions.

Nan sighed, but obliged, even holding Di's backpack while she tied her boots in the elevator on the way down.

"Thanks," Di said, taking the backpack and running through a mental checklist. She had her ID, phone, laptop, no charger dammit, Sociology book, keys . . . "Crap, I forgot my keys!"

"Oh no you don't," Nan said, seizing her elbow and steering her into the brisk September sunshine. "We are already cutting things very close."

"But I'll be locked out!"

"You can meet me for dinner and I'll walk you home after."

Di reclaimed her arm, rubbing gingerly at the outline of her tattoo. She had meant to put some lotion on it, but there hadn't been time. Maybe she could duck into Pride House between classes and rummage through the cabinets.

"How's the tattoo?" Nan asked, eyeing Di's arm.

The reflexive _it's fine_ was on the tip of Di's tongue, but it died there when she saw the softness of Nan's expression. Nan would tease her about it someday, but not now, while it was still red and swollen.

"It itches," Di admitted.

Nan paused under a lush maple, the clock notwithstanding, and took her sister's hand in cool, deft fingers. She pushed up the sleeve gingerly, pink lips pressed together. Di held her breath as she waited for the verdict. No use pretending she didn't care what her sister thought.

At last, Nan released her with a tiny shrug. "At least it's straight."

"Sure hope not," Di said, scratching at a peeling bit of skin.

Nan snorted and reached into her bag, coming up with a tiny tube of lotion. "Here. Stop picking at it."

Grateful, Di worked a pearl of lotion into the skin as they resumed walking. The morning was poised on the cusp of autumn, summer birds still lingering in green maples whose crowns were creeping toward chartreuse. A nip in the wind off the harbor had transformed the quad into a catwalk for The North Face. Far too much gray for Di's taste, though she cheered the return of flannel season.

"So . . . got anything special today?" Di said, when what she meant was _thanks_.

"My seminar at the law school."

Di brightened. Nan had been nervous about asking permission to enroll in that course, and was so thrilled when the professor agreed. Di ought to have remembered to ask about it before now. "How's that going?"

"It's hard," Nan admitted. "There's a ton of reading and sometimes I have to go over the articles two or three times _to make head or tail of them. And Jer — I mean some of the others are so smart at it_."*

Di threaded her arm through her sister's and squeezed. "If you aren't the smartest one in that seminar room, I'll eat my hat."

"You're not wearing a hat."

"Sweatshirt, then. All these little hot dogs. Om nom nom."

Nan gave a grudging little smile that fell quickly back toward worry. "It's really hard, Di," she said quietly. "I might fail."

"You won't."

"I know you mean to be encouraging," Nan said, squeezing back. "But it's a lot pressure, feeling like everyone expects me to succeed all the time. What if I've bitten off more than I can chew?"

To be perfectly honest, the thought had never really occurred to Di. When Nan made a bargain, she always kept it as a matter of honor, to the point where Di generally assumed that anything Nan attempted was as good as accomplished from the outset. Hell, Nan had announced on the first day of high school that she meant be the valedictorian of their class, and Di had never entertained a single doubt from that moment until Nan took the podium to give her address at graduation. Di was proud of sister and sometimes wished she had that sort of follow-through. But if what Nan needed was help dusting herself off after a fall, well, for once Di was the expert.

"If you fail," Di said with a grin, "we'll celebrate your freedom from the tyranny of expectations. Get drunk. Cut your hair. Maybe even get a tattoo or two."

Nan shook her head, but she was smiling.

"Come on now," Di teased. "What would you get if you _had_ to get a tattoo? Silhouette of Jane Austen? A quotation from _Jane Eyre_? Oooh! Oooh! The Brontësaurus!"

"Brontësaurus?"

"You've never seen the Brontësaurus?" Di was already reaching for her phone. It was the work of a minute to find the fanart of three long-necked dinosaurs sitting at a tea table, little curls framing their solemn faces. She handed it to Nan, who took one look and burst into a peal of laughter that stopped her in the middle of the path. Other students sidestepped, but Nan went right on howling.

"It's a deal," she gasped. "If I fail this seminar, I'll get a Brontësaurus tattoo."

* * *

Nan was very grateful to her past self for scheduling an hour of break after her seminar. The little ritual of a cinnamon dolce latte and an hour of fanfic after the intensity of that class allowed her to clear her mind and come down from the adrenaline. Luckily, the manager at the Starbucks on Park Street had always taken cross-contamination seriously and made sure her staff did as well. The baked goods were all strictly off-limits —even *sigh* the vanilla bean scones — but Nan knew that no one would roll their eyes when she asked that her drink be made in a sanitized pitcher.

Or, almost no one.

"People are so picky these days," grumbled a woman waiting in line.

Nan didn't turn around. She only tilted her chin a little higher as she handed over her rewards card. People were callous and ignorant, but Nan would not let them hurt her. Instead, she gathered up their follies and used them to adorn her stories.

She had always enjoyed imagining things about the people she encountered, ever since she was a bored little girl making up wild tales to enliven long afternoons in waiting rooms. There had been the well-groomed receptionist who _would have been thunderstruck to know that Nan Blythe pictured her as a kidnapper of children, boiling them alive to make potions that would keep her young forever_ and the solemn-faced phlebotomist _who had no notion that a curse had been put on him at birth by a witch, the result being that he could never smile_. Certainly the customers at this very Starbucks _would have been amazed and perhaps a little horrified if they had known _that_ the demure, brown-eyed maiden_ waiting for her drink at the counter had written many of them into her tales, not always in the most flattering light.**

The rude woman in line, for instance, would make an excellent friend for the Bingley sisters. Did she have any distinguishing characteristics? Nan would be happy to immortalize them, if only anonymously.

Sneaking a peek at the line, Nan was brought up short by a familiar profile at the register.

"A tall medium roast, please," said Jerry Meredith, counting out the requisite coins.

"Room for milk?"

"No, thanks."

If Nan had not known him, she might have been tempted to find Jerry intriguing, which she certainly did not. He did not dress like other boys his age — she had never seen him in a t-shirt or sneakers, not even on move-in day — and it was refreshing to see someone taking notes by hand. But that was neither here nor there. She could never be friendly with someone like Jerry Meredith, in spite of his elegant figure and flashing black eyes that lit with passion whenever he was making an emphatic argument in class. An _erroneous_ argument more often than not, but not even Nan could deny that he was sincere in his principles.

"How can anyone honestly believe that carbon taxes are government overreach?" she had seethed to Di and Delilah in the dining-hall just yesterday, sure of a sympathetic audience. They had agreed politely, but with none of the fire Nan needed to keep her own indignation burning.

Faith was no help either. "Jerry's just Jerry," she had shrugged when Nan wondered aloud how any person their age could possibly think that Andrew Scheer ever said anything worth listening to.

That was not particularly enlightening, nor did it lessen the prickle of annoyance Nan felt any time she encountered Jerry either inside the classroom or out. She almost — _almost_ — wished that she could have complained about him to Patrick, though that was a can of worms best kept tightly lidded. Not that they had parted badly. It had been undeniably thrilling to be wooed by one of the staffers in Ottawa, even if Patrick had been a teeny bit pompous. Alright, more than a bit. But he had spent the summer introducing Nan to people who had the sort of jobs she wanted to have someday and explaining the covert feuds between various offices and tipping her off when he heard interesting rumors. He had tolerable taste in restaurants and sex. Still, for all his flattering attention — and it _had_ been flattering — Nan had not exactly been sorry to part ways with Patrick at the end of the summer. For one thing, he wouldn't have recognized a joke if it were dancing a jig on his desk. For another, he was not quite as interested in taking direction as he was in giving it, which was fine in the halls of Parliament, but tiresome elsewhere. Nan didn't regret their fling, but she couldn't honestly say she missed Patrick. He wouldn't have thought much of Jerry Meredith, though, and she did miss like-minded companionship.

Half of Redmond seemed to be on their afternoon coffee break and all of the single tables were occupied, even the ones by the window with no outlets. Nan did not like to sit at the counter, perched precariously on a high stool with her feet dangling — _who_, exactly, could sit here comfortably? — but it seemed she had no choice. She chose a spot at the end and wiped down both seat and counter with the alcohol wipes she kept in her bag. It didn't hurt to be careful. Unpacking her iPad and keyboard, Nan settled in with her latte to write a couple of reviews.

She had just opened the perpetual dark-blue tab and pulled up her latest story stats when someone cleared his throat beside her.

"Do you mind if I sit here?" Jerry asked, indicating the only empty seat.

Nan tossed her head with studied unconcern. "It's a free country."

Jerry pressed his lips together as if he meant to say something, but didn't. Instead he pulled a thick slab of a book out of his bag and laid it on the counter. _Civil Procedure_, Nan noted, though she wasn't looking.

The stool next to hers creaked as Jerry slid into it and opened his textbook to a page already marked with highlighter and marginal notes. Not that Nan noticed. No, she had traffic to check and messages to answer and it made no difference to her what Jerry Meredith thought about due process or anything else. Vexed, she clicked over to MissMorland81's latest chapter and began tapping out an effusive review.

* * *

It was nearly ten o'clock when Zero Pucks finished mopping the ice with their opponents. John had spent a fair bit of the match in the penalty box, but he had also impressed his teammates with his hustle on defense and his disregard for his own bodily safety. When the final horn sounded, they had knocked his helmet and thrown their gloves at him and congratulated Ken on finding such a useful blockhead.

Freshly showered, John hoisted his gear onto his unbruised shoulder and grunted his farewells to Ken and the rest of the guys before stepping out into the night. As he walked the darkened path toward Gardener Hall, he checked his phone for new messages — _none_ — and chided himself for feeling disappointed. Disappointment was only possible when you wanted something and did not get it, and John had long ago concluded that wanting things was usually an unpleasant business.

The Stuart Memorial Athletic Complex was only half a kilometer from the freshman quad, an easy walk along the fir-lined ridge, then down the dim slope behind Gardner Hall toward the pond. The path was deserted this time of night.

Or so he thought.

"Well look who's come to college at last," drawled a voice that stopped John a few feet from the door. He hadn't noticed the dark-haired junior leaning against the brick wall, neatly concealed in the space between circles of lamplight.

Traitorous excitement mocked all John's resolutions. Annoyed with himself, he answered more sharply than he meant to. "How did you find me?"

"Why? Were you hiding?"

The tip of a lit cigarette glowed for one last puff before Wilkie Marshall crushed it under the toe of an ankle boot. He stepped into the lamplight and flashed John that maddening smirk that always seemed to imply that he knew more than he should. Which he usually did. Now he blocked the path, standing close enough that John could smell the smoke on his breath and the all too familiar scent of sandalwood aftershave. There was amusement in the sharp amber eyes with their black brows and talent for spotting opportunities. God damn it. John had sworn off him a dozen times but never for very long.

"Look, you're the one who texted me, Blythe," Wilkie said coolly. "Imagine my surprise. Though I haven't quite worked out why you need _another_ fake ID. Are we running from the law?"

"It's for my sister," John muttered.

"Who knew you were such a family man?"

This had been a mistake. John had probably known that from the moment he had pulled up the thread from the last time they'd texted back in May.

_go to hell asshole_

_See you there!_

The smart thing would have been to block the number and never look back. But when had John ever been smart where Wilkie was concerned? He could have gotten an ID somewhere else. But some pathetic part of him wanted to see whether Wilkie would come if he called, and had been a little hurt when his text had gone unanswered. Well, Wilkie had always known how to make an entrance.

"How much for the ID?" John asked.

The smirk expanded until it revealed a dimple hidden deep in Wilkie's cheek. "No charge for friends."

John was already reaching for his wallet. "No, I'll pay for it."

He held out a fan of bills, but Wilkie didn't take them.

"How about you keep your money and put it down as a poker stake?"

God damn it, he knew just where to push. It had been a dismal summer and John had often found himself longing for Wilkie's poker nights. Heavy clay chips on the felt-top table, cards whispering over one another, whiskey of the sort even Dad would have kept for a special occasion. It was nothing like the friendly penny-ante games his family sometimes played around a picnic table. Wilkie only invited players who could justify their presence with card skills or deep pockets or other notable assets, and John had felt proud of proving himself in that company. There was nothing more satisfying than pulling off a perfect bluff, especially against Wilkie, who always gave as good as he got. Now there was no curfew to dodge and no reason to refuse except that it would all end in disappointment again.

"Come play," Wilkie purred.

He should say no. He should say he had class in the morning, which was true, or that he was sore from hockey, which was also true. But it was also true that he _wanted_.

Wilkie was standing so close that John didn't even have to close the gap. All he had to do was turn so that his shoulder was no longer a barrier between them.

"It's late," he said without conviction.

Wilkie had him now, fingers curling into the furled hood of his sweatshirt and pressing against the bruised shoulder, holding John close enough that his words were puffs of air on John's cheek.

"Not so late. Come on. Come with me."

Wilkie's kiss was the same as it ever was, launching John away from the humdrum world and into realms where the thrill of flight might be worth the inevitable fall. When John pulled away, he did not go far.

"Is anyone else invited to this game?"

A vulpine smile of triumph unfurled across Wilkie's face. "I'll invite whoever you like. Hallett? Boone? Prescott graduated, but he's still hanging around here somewhere. Or no one. I could invite no one."

"No, call them," John said. "You're right; it isn't that late. Let me just run upstairs to drop off my bag."

* * *

Carl turned the rose-gold phone on and then off again, on and then off. No, ON, definitely on. There was a whole private world in there for anyone with enough gumption to download it.

Tonight was the perfect opportunity. John was out playing hockey, not that he would have noticed or cared what Carl was doing even if he were in the room. But his absence made Carl feel secure enough to hover a finger over the app store, take a deep breath, and click.

It took only a moment to download Grindr.

Immediately, Carl was swarmed with demands. _Allow app to access your location? _💥ADVERTISEMENT!💥 _Email address? Username? Pronouns? _❤️ADVERTISEMENT!❤️ _Upload a photo! Describe your body type! Are you looking for friends? Hookups? Dates? Long-term relationships? _💵SPECIAL OFFER: UPGRADE TO PREMIUM!💵

Carl turned the phone screen away and exhaled a vague prayer for serenity. This is what people did, wasn't it? Probably everybody got the jitters. It was at least worth _trying_, wasn't it?

Luckily, the app did not require a photo or pronouns before allowing Carl — newly christened _sparrow_ — to see other users' profiles and get a better idea of what was expected. The profiles were arranged in a grid of faces, silhouettes, and headless torsos ordered by their proximity to Carl's own invisible signal. There were a lot of them. Carl scrolled, marveling that there were so many users within a few kilometers. Students, probably, right here on campus. There was something marvelous about that, knowing that some of the boys taking notes in biology class or laughing with their friends on the quad lived here in the phone as well. A lot more than just the ones who went to Pride House events.

With a little thrill of terror, Carl clicked on an image of a red-headed boy hunched over a guitar. _MusicMax, 21, 843 meters away, likes: guitar, boardgames, cooking_. Carl decided that MusicMax looked nice. Perhaps it might be worth messaging him sometime. Not now, when _sparrow_'s profile looked like it had been made by someone in witness protection. But Carl would soon add the easy bits — _likes: singing, nature, Fred Astaire_ — and figure out the rest later.

There were other profiles: _dancedancedance_ with his sparkling smile, _mathlete_ posing with a golden retriever, _saylor96_ steering a racing boat. They all looked friendly and ordinary and Carl began to calm down a little, feeling silly for getting flustered.

With every click, the grid rearranged itself slightly as some users moved nearer or farther away. Carl soon noticed that a headless torso named _yawp_ seemed to be coming steadily nearer, having started down near the 500ms and jumping a few places in line every time Carl clicked back to the grid. Probably a student, since he was 207 meters from Gardner Hall on a weeknight. That would be nice, wouldn't it, to date another student? There were probably _lots_ of people with no experience and no clue, and it would be reassuring to be on the same page. Maybe not with this _particular_ user, who was bold enough to post a photo of his bare chest for all the world to see, but then again if you had a chest like that, you might as well flaunt it, right?

Carl peered more closely at the photo. Something about it was setting off a little fizzle of recognition . . . something about the background. Carl peered closer, noting the neatly-made bed and its striped blanket in shades of brown and ochre. Carl had only to look across the room to find its double lying innocently across the foot of John's bed.

Carl blinked. Surely it was nothing. Any number of people might purchase the same shabby-chic quilt, mass-produced to mimic age and authenticity. But come to think of it, that wasn't really John's style, was it? Everything else he owned tended toward clean lines and unfussy solids, all except that old-fashioned blanket. It had never seemed significant before.

Feeling like a burglar, Carl slipped across the floor toward John's bed. There must be a tag somewhere, testifying that this blanket was from Bed Bath and Beyond and that there were thousands just like it in dorm rooms all over North America. Carl had never touched anything of John's before, not even the supple leather jacket in the back of the closet that practically _begged_ to be touched, but this was important. One hesitant finger flicked a corner back and forth, then the next. Carl checked all four, but the answer was clear from the first: this was a handmade blanket, more intricately knitted than anything you'd find for $39.99 at a big box store. There was weight to it and something else that reminded Carl of the crocheted afghans Mother had left behind.

Carl glanced down at the photo to compare the stripes, even though it was obvious that they were identical. It was awfully difficult to stay focused on the blanket, though, given the torso in the frame. With no face, it could have been anyone's. Well, perhaps not _anyone's_ and certainly not Carl's, but there could be any number of people 89 meters away who fit that description, couldn't there? Besides, John was out playing hockey!

Unable to resist, Carl stepped away from John's bed and toward the window. See? There was no one coming along the ridge from the SMAC. Just trees and pools of lamplight and . . . and . . . and someone emerging from the darkness carrying a very large bag. Someone with a familiar gait.

With a little yelp, Carl dropped the rose-gold phone as if it were on fire. John was _yawp_; _yawp_ was John; _yawp_ was John was coming home.

For an awful moment, Carl was frozen as if caught in the beam of a huge magnifying glass in some horrible dream. Even without the phone, it was obvious that John was coming closer with every passing heartbeat. In minutes, he would open the door and find Carl here, standing at his window, gawping at his Grindr profile.

_No! Move! Delete! Delete! Delete!_

Carl was all thumbs, clicking wildly and imprecisely on anything that looked like an X or a _Cancel_. How did you delete an app from this stupid phone? Did deleting the app delete your profile? Please, oh please oh please delete all of this!

In the end, Carl need not have hurried. John took his sweet time covering the last fifty meters, which didn't make much sense, but did give Carl's heartrate time to recover. When the key finally turned in the lock of Gardner 126, Carl was hunched over a random page of whichever textbook had been handy, highlighting a sentence without having any idea what it said. The rose-gold phone lay face-down on the desk, its bitten Apple logo drawing Carl's eye despite all efforts to ignore it.

_Just be cool._

Carl had a plan. Just nod a perfunctory greeting, study a few more minutes, and then go to bed casually, as if nothing had changed. It hadn't really, had it?

The door opened and John stepped inside, crossing to his bed with more haste than usual. He dropped his hockey gear onto the striped blanket, then rummaged in the closet until he emerged with the leather jacket and a much smaller bag. Carl stopped pretending not to watch as John gathered a toothbrush and his morning gym clothes, zipping them away before he transferred the essentials: phone, keys, wallet. He swung the bag onto his shoulder, making accidental eye contact with Carl in the process.

"Going out?" Carl said in a passably casual voice.

"Yep."

"Have fun!"

John grunted an acknowledgement, disappearing through the door as quickly as he had come. Carl imagined him out into night, ten meters, fifty, one hundred, and gone.

* * *

Jerry knew he should just go to bed. It was late. Very late. Besides, this was a very bad idea, whatever time it was.

Still, he was awfully curious.

The rickety old laptop glowed blue in the unlit room. Jerry had already locked the door and pulled the window shade; now he considered whether he ought to put some sort of sticker over the built-in camera. But what good would that do? Instead, he opened an incognito window.

It wouldn't hurt just to peek, would it? That is, she was publishing the stuff online where anyone could read it, so it's not like she had a reasonable expectation of privacy.

That was true. But somehow, Jerry doubted that Section 8 of the Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms was the governing statute in this case. He shouldn't have looked over her shoulder, even if she was sitting right out there in public, tapping away so fast that whatever she was writing must be infinitely more exciting than _Civil Procedure_. He hadn't recognized the website with the dark blue banner, but the name was written right there across the top where anyone could see. As was her screen name.

Jerry swithered.

Closed his laptop.

Opened it again.

He was only human and the temptation was just too strong.

It was easy to find the website, even easier to type _CallMeCordelia_ into the search bar. Yes, there was her profile; at least, he was pretty sure of the name and the tiny Canadian flag served as corroborating evidence. The avatar showed a dark-haired girl on a windswept cliff, long skirts whipping about her legs. _Joined Aug 10, 2009_. She had been doing this since she was a kid. _Author has written 37 stories for Pride and Prejudice, Sense and Sensibility, Jane Eyre, Little Women, Frankenstein . . ._

Wow. There were millions of words here. Story after story with premises Jerry didn't understand . . . _Jo accepts Laurie's proposal_ . . . _Emma falls in love with Jane Fairfax_ . . . _Bertha was never really mad_ . . .

Some of them were short, but many were 50,000 or 100,000 or even 200,000 words. Goodness, who had 450,008 words to say on any subject, let alone _Darcy never writes his letter_?

Nearly all were complete, but CallMeCordelia seemed to be in the midst of a substantial endeavor billed as a_ canon-compatible retelling of Pride and Prejudice from Jane's POV_. At least Jerry recognized the title of that one; Una had it on DVD.

Did he dare read any of it? Would he understand any of it if he did?

In after years, Jerry would reflect that the way to learn the shape of someone's heart was to read what they had written. Perhaps he already suspected something of the sort, though he would have denied any motive but simple curiosity. Whatever his reasons, as inscrutable to himself as they were to anyone else, Jerry hovered over the title of Nan's work in progress — _Shyness and Suggestibility_ — and clicked.

* * *

Notes:

*_Anne of Green Gables_, Chapter 12: "A New Interest in Life"

**_Anne of Ingleside_, Chapter 35


	10. Various Scrapes

**Various Scrapes**

* * *

On Saturday morning, Nan wrapped herself in a heather rose sweater and took her iPad out to the deserted terrace. Last night's fun had left behind red plastic cups and the lingering whiff of stale beer, but a breeze off the harbor swept the former into piles and diluted the latter with the first crisp notes of autumn. The rest of Cooper Hall would sleep until noon or later, leaving Nan to the windswept solitude of her high vantage. She snuggled into a patio chair and opened her email.

There were the expected reviews from MissMorland81 and CatherineDeBurgers, along with Persis's weekly update on her adventures in Milan. Ordinarily, Nan would have pounced on any of these, but there was also a fourth message: _A new guest review has been posted to your story. Please login to moderate this review_.

A guest review! Nan felt a little thrill. A Guest review could be almost anything! Most readers just consumed her stories without ever saying hello, so Nan cherished every reviewer, even the ones who said absolutely nothing for the first 51 chapters and then piped up in chapter 52 to say, "Actually in canon Elinor's eyes are purple!" It was neither true nor relevant, but they had given CallMeCordelia a moment of their time and that was a gift.

Once, long ago, Mother had been ill and Susan had told Nan that they must give her time. _How could you give anyone time, Nan wondered._* Now she knew that there were only so many hours in a day, and you could spend them or bill for them, but you could also opt out of the whole market metaphor altogether. Every review was a minute or an hour of someone's precious time, and Nan was sensible of the honor when they chose to bestow them on her. The best reviewers were always other writers because they understood. Nan thought that MissMorland81 and CatherineDeBurgers — whoever they were — probably knew her better than anyone in her real life, except maybe Di.

Clicking over to her moderating queue, Nan was delighted to find not just one Guest review, but ten — _ten!_ — consecutive chapter reviews, the very best kind! She approved the lot of them and settled in to read, grinning into the collar of her sweater.

The first was very short: _Why doesn't Mr. Bennet just bar the entail?_

It was a good question, even if it did reveal a certain disregard for the conventions of canon-compatible fanfic. Nan wished that she could reply to Guest's question — _her_ Mr. Bennet could not contest the entail that kept Longbourn out of his daughters' hands because _canon_ Mr. Bennet had not — but it was only possible to PM users with their own accounts. It was a reasonable question, though.

The next was longer: _Wait. The mother sends Jane without the carriage because she knows it's going to rain? Is she trying to get her married or get her killed?_

Nan giggled. It wasn't often that someone read one of her fics without reading canon first, but it was certainly entertaining.

Third: _I really liked the way you wrote Jane's experience of being sick in bed. It sounds like there is a lot of other stuff going on in the house with Elizabeth arriving, but you only show it from Jane's point of view. I liked the phrase "muzzy-headed fatigue." Is that you or Austen?_

There were several more like that, increasing in length and complexity until the tenth had full paragraphs. Nan savored them. Whoever Guest was, they were an insightful reader with a good eye for any contradiction or continuity error. They were also very, _very_ wrong about Mr. Darcy — was it really possibly they didn't know the story? — but it was tremendously amusing to watch them try to puzzle him out.

When she got to the end of the reviews, Nan read them again. Then she clicked over to the Doc Manager, where chapter 11 was all loaded and ready to publish, and added an author's note:

_Dear Guest: Thank you for all your lovely reviews! Christmas came early when I opened my email. Why don't you create an account? I'd love to be able to respond to you directly. For now, I will only say that I am very glad that you are enjoying this story and that you are right about Mr. Bennet and the entail. He could have challenged it and the fact that he did not makes him contemptibly feckless. I'll put it in my file of future story ideas: Lizzy discovers how to bar the entail! _😃_ For now, please accept a thousand thanks for your thoughtful reviews. I'll be smiling over them all day! Hope we can chat soon!_

* * *

Rilla Blythe stood in a little alcove in the gleaming, buzzing foyer of the Dawson Theatre, admiring an old gilt-framed portrait of a _very handsome_ woman with _large dark-blue eyes, ivory outlines, and a gloss of darkness on her smooth hair_.** She wore an elegant gown of peacock blue silk and was flanked by two sleek, sharp-eared doberman pinschers. A little brass plaque at the bottom of the frame read, _Christine Stuart Dawson (1865-1947) with Handel and Haydn_. Rilla attempted to copy Christine's regal pose, arching her neck as if she, too, were festooned with diamonds of the first water.

It was an easy thing to pretend in the midst of such glamour. The sweep of the stairs, the art deco arches painted in green and gold, and the shimmering chandelier all made Rilla feel as if she were on the set of a Ginger Rogers movie, ready to be swept up in an improbably elaborate dance number.

Rilla had spent the week fantasizing about dances, but not the sort that involved maribou and swirling chiffon. After the concert, Mum and Dad would go out to their anniversary dinner and Rilla would go to Irene's, where she had stashed a pair of high-heeled silver sandals and the new green dress that was a whole inch shorter than her white one. It wasn't a lie to say that she was spending the night with Irene and Olive; it's just that they'd be spending most of it at the Lighthouse. That is, as long as Shirley-or-John-or-whatever came through for her.

Where was he anyway? Not laughing over bright red drinks with Joy and Jem near the bar, nor admiring the architecture with Nan and Di and Di's girlfriend. Rilla scanned the crowd, spotting Aunt Jo amid a flock of black dresses and jewel-tone scarves, but no John. Oh, he better not flake on this, not when Rilla was counting on him!

To her relief, she found John near the coat check, standing with Susan and her family. From the look of things, Cousin Sophia had found something to displease her, though whether it was the noise or the decor or their seats was impossible to say. In any case, John bore her tirade patiently and spoke to Gladys and Matilda with apparent equanimity, not even evading when Susan reached up to brush an imaginary imperfection from the shoulder of his jacket.

Rilla wove through the crowd, intending to interrupt, but was spared the necessity by the flickering of the house lights. John nodded his goodbyes to Susan and her family and caught Rilla's eye. Together, they joined the general rush to claim their seats.

The Dawson really was magnificent. Rilla had seen sketches and swatches, but those hadn't prepared her for experiencing it all together, life-size and glittering and thrumming with well-dressed Kingsport's eager anticipation. She perched at the edge of her jade-velvet seat, drinking in the energy of the crowd. High in the box seats, Mum and Dad were taking their places, Mum's hair instantly recognizable at any distance. Rilla had helped her _experiment with several hair-do's_, eventually opting for a modified pompadour. _Rilla had no greater delight than watching Mum dress_ for an event, and had been triumphant when she settled on the shimmering silver taffeta gown Rilla had recommended. She was even more elegant than old what's-her-face with the dobermans. A good thing, too, as Mum was supposed to accept a congratulatory bouquet on stage at the end of the performance. _It was wonderful to have a mother you could be so proud of._***

John slipped into the seat beside Rilla. He rummaged in his interior coat pocket and produced at shiny card, handing it over discreetly.

Rilla could have kissed him. Or squealed. Or held the card up to the light to admire it. Mustering all her resolve to play it cool, she merely grinned into her lap and whispered, "Thanks."

"You sure you know what you're doing?" John murmured.

"Nothing you haven't done plenty of times."

"That's why I'm asking."

Rilla scrutinized the driver's license in her lap. It had her real name and a real picture, though someone had photoshopped some of the lingering roundness out of her cheeks. She hadn't been expecting it to be so professional, especially since John had insisted that she didn't need to pay.

"Will it scan?" she asked.

"Mine always has."

Rilla wanted to ask him if he'd ever tried it at the Lighthouse. She thought she had heard that it was an inclusive club, but she didn't know if it was really John's scene. Come to think of it, it was difficult to imagine him dancing anywhere.

She might have asked, but the lights flicked again and then went dark. The audience hushed. As the musicians of the Kingsport Symphony took their seats, Rilla ran her fingers over the edges of her new ID and grinned into the darkness.

* * *

Sometime toward the middle of the andante, when the Dawson Theatre was hanging on the string section's every tremulous emotion, Anne felt a sharp tap on her shoulder.

"Anne," Phil hissed. "We have a _problem_."

Anne looked up into velvety brown eyes gone round. In the space of a single breath, she imagined a dozen possible disasters with overwhelming clarity: the roof was on fire, the chandelier had fallen, a patron had suffered a heart attack . . .

"Anything I can do to help?" Gilbert asked.

"We'll handle it," Anne replied, patting him on the shoulder.

Phil was already at the door to the box, vibrating with potential energy. Anne followed her into the hall, the iridescent folds of her gown rustling as she hurried to keep up.

"What's happened?"

"Water!" Phil grumbled. "Looks like one of the new pipe fittings was faulty. My guys are on it, but there's a lot of water."

"Where?"

"Basement B."

There were bad answers and worse answers, though it was difficult to say which applied to Basement B. Certainly Anne felt a wave of relief that the washrooms were not flooding, which might have triggered an immediate evacuation; certainly she was glad that the electrical equipment in Basement A was not the immediate concern. But Basement B was a storage area, holding everything from century-old records and vintage promotional posters to boxes of Dawson-branded tote bags and cases of currant wine. Anne imagined all of it bobbing about in a sea of waist-deep water. By the time they reached the elevator, she was sure it would descend into the flood, _Titanic_-style.

Luckily, things were not quite so dire. Phil might be cursing her plumbing contractor six ways from Sunday, but the hall leading to the storage area seemed dry. Anne jogged along toward the door, her floor-length skirts skimming the basement floor. With a tightening of the lips, she pushed the door open and whisked through.

Things weren't as bad as Anne's most lurid imaginings, but they were plenty bad to be going on with. Far in the back, two of Phil's crew were working on a pipe, muttering together in strained tones. The old basement floor must be slightly sloped because the immediate vicinity of the door was still dry, but the cardboard boxes holding fundraising tchotchkes were standing in an inch of water. One wall was spattered with dark patches where the pipe had sprayed, endangering the large rolls of paper stored on a wide shelf.

"The posters!" Anne cried, wading in without a second thought.

"Anne, come back!" shrieked Phil. "Y_ou'll ruin your dress in that wet _basement_, ruin it! She doesn't hear me._"****

Indeed, Anne did not. She was thinking only of the oversized advertisements, some of which were as old as the Dawson itself. Anne had had grand plans for those posters — an exhibition at the very least — but they had taken a backseat until the renovations were finished. Now, she went charging into the ankle-deep water like a mad thing and filled her arms with the damp rolls.

Phil, at least, had the sense to bunch up her wine-colored skirt and stuff the end into her bosom to keep it off the floor. Thus, when Gilbert and Jo arrived some minutes later, they found Anne and Phil breathless, bedraggled, and wet to the skin, though Anne's _clinging and drenched skirt_ and escaping red hair made her by far the more picturesque of the pair.

"Gilbert Blythe, if you are taking a photo, I swear to God . . ."

"Not in the least, Anne-girl," said Gilbert, tapping at the phone in his hand and biting the inside of his cheek fiercely enough to stave off laughter until the immediate crisis had passed.

Jo had already kicked off her shoes and was rolling her trouser cuffs up to her knees. Gilbert joined her, tossing his jacket into a dry corner before he took an armful of posters from Anne. If his grin was any indication, he found all this much more amusing than any concert. Well at least someone was pleased, Anne groused to herself as she waded back in to rescue another load.

With four working together, the Blythes and Gordon-Blakes had relocated most of the posters to high ground by the time the elevator doors opened to deliver reinforcements.

"Geez!" Joy exclaimed. "You weren't kidding, Dad!"

The other kids had come as well, some of them hurrying past Joy while the others were thundering down the stairs like a herd of elephants. In no time at all, the little corridor was too full of helpers for anyone to actually move.

If Anne were not quite so busy, she might have sighed or wept or clasped her hands beneath her chin. Gilbert must have texted Joy as soon as he saw the situation and all the kids had come at once, no questions asked. Even Delilah was there, which made Anne revise several of the uncharitable opinions she had formed after spending an hour on the phone with Nan. They were wonderful children, all of them, and Anne reflected that she and Gilbert must have done something right after all.

At the moment, Gilbert was organizing the troops so that they could all help without getting in one another's way. Jem and John had already added their jackets to the pile on the floor and the girls were devising a plan to ferry boxes up in the elevator so the corridor would not fill up. They got to work, but not before Jo issued each of them a gigantic day-glo yellow shirt that screamed DAWSON THEATRE 1991 in a frenetic font embellished with fuchsia and turquoise confetti. Nan's was so large that it fell to her knees, hiding her pretty pink dress entirely.

Anne's own gown was a lost cause. She looked down in dismay, only now realizing that the dirty basement water had wicked up the fabric, soaking her nearly to the waist. The bodice was criss-crossed with smears of dirt where the dusty posters had rubbed, and her pompadour was collapsing over her forehead. The stains would never come out, Anne knew, but that was alright. She'd just stay down here sorting through the mess until the audience went home, and then she and Gilbert would sneak out to the car. No one would ever see her in this state. . .

Anne stopped cold.

_Oh no._

She couldn't sneak away. She was supposed to be on stage in a few minutes, receiving a bouquet and giving a short speech thanking the sponsors and audience members for supporting the arts. The Premier was here, for goodness sake!

"Don't worry, honey," Phil said. "My guys have stopped the leak and we'll have all this cleaned up in a jif. Of course, I'll be having some _words_ with the plumbing contractor, but . . ."

"_Phil!_" Anne squeaked, digging her fingers into her friend's arm. "My speech!"

Phil's initial confusion morphed into horror as she gaped at Anne's attire. "Oh, Anne! You can't!"

"I know!"

"We'll send someone up to warn them not to announce you. I can go. I'm not too dirty, am I?"

In truth, Phil had a wide streak of filth across her forehead where she had wiped a dirty arm. But her skirt was alright, wasn't it? Better than Anne's at least. Perhaps they could scrub her face with one of the shirts.

"What's wrong, Mum?" Joy asked, rolling out of the way as Jem carried a stack of boxes into the elevator.

"Nothing, sweetheart!" Anne chirped.

Joy gave a skeptical look at . . . well, everything, really . . . and raised an eyebrow in passable imitation of Gilbert.

"Well, yes," Anne conceded. "Besides the flood, that is."

"You're supposed to give a speech upstairs, aren't you?"

Anne gave a little laugh and gestured at her predicament. "I don't see how I can. _I don't know whether I'm myself or a mud pie!_"*****

"You could wear one of the shirts," Phil suggested with barely-contained hilarity.

Joy had evidently come to a similar conclusion. "Come on, Mum, come upstairs with me."

"I _can't_."

"Oh, yes you can. Come on. _Rilla!_ Come here. Bring a couple of those big shirts. The biggest ones you can find."

Rilla, who had been holding a banker's box at arm's length, looked relieved to be called away from the dirty work. She left the dusty old records to Di and Delilah, picking her way across the field of debris with a care for her hem.

"No, really," Anne assured Joy, "Auntie Phil was only kidding. I'll just let the Symphony keep the applause and no harm done."

"Like hell," Joy said. "It's your applause. And we've only got about fifteen minutes to get you ready, so let's _go_."

They rode up to the ground floor with the next load of boxes. Anne was gratified to find that Angus and the ushers were pitching in too, carrying loads from the elevator to the box office. Still, she had no idea what Joy was planning until she was locked in a single-stall bathroom with her oldest and youngest daughters.

"Give me a hand, Rilla," Joy said, using a handrail to pull herself to her feet.

"Joy, darling, what are you up to?" Anne asked.

"You can't go on stage in _that_," Joy said, gesturing with her chin. "And not in a yellow shirt, either. Rilla's dress won't fit you, Nan's is pink, and Di's in pants. That means you're left with _this_."

She indicated her own black dress, which was smart enough without being quite as whimsical as Anne's ordinary attire. But it was clean and it would fit and Rilla was already helping Joy step out of it.

Anne never would have asked her children to give her the literal clothes off their backs, but there was no sense protesting. Joy got back into her chair and covered up with one neon shirt that was quite as long as her dress had been, and another over her lap for good measure. Rilla helped Anne off with the silver gown, giving a small sigh of regret over its ruined beauty. Together, they zipped Anne into Joy's dress, let down her hair, and performed what small miracles could be accomplished with damp paper towels and finger-combing. The bosom of the dress was a bit roomy, but with Anne's hair down and her diamond pendant sparkling at her throat, it didn't draw the eye.

"Do I look alright?" Anne asked, stepping back for her daughters' scrutiny.

"You look _beautiful_," Rilla assured her.

Joy cocked her head to one side. "Maybe hold the flowers right in front of you in case someone takes a picture."

Anne threw her head back and laughed, then took her girls in her arms and thanked them.

When the Symphony conductor called Anne's name and welcomed her to the stage with an enormous bouquet, Anne was almost too overcome to say anything at all. She gazed out at the expectant faces of the audience, feeling suddenly shy of so many eminent dignitaries. But then, lifting her eyes, Anne spied a line of yellow-clad figures who had snuck in to line the back wall. _Her fright and nervousness vanished; and she began her recitation, her clear, sweet voice reaching to the farthest corner of the room without a tremor or a break_.******

* * *

Notes:

*_Anne of Ingleside_, Chapter 26

**_Anne of the Island_, Chapter 26: "Enter Christine"

***_Anne of Ingleside_, Chapters 25 and 40

****_Anne of Avonlea_, Chapter 2: "Selling in Haste and Repenting at Leisure" Several other phrases in the surrounding paragraphs are also from the Jersey cow incident, but there are enough notes already.

*****_Rainbow Valley_, Chapter 2: "Sheer Gossip," stolen from Faith in one of her more Anne-ish scrapes

******_Anne of Green Gables_, Chapter 33: "The Hotel Concert"

A thousand thanks to my own lovely Guest reviewers! For the record: Nan's scene is _not_ an elaborate bleg for reviews dressed up as a plotline — I just thought it would be fun to write a "secret letters" story that explores Nan's emotional connection with her reviewers.


	11. The Lighthouse

**The Lighthouse**

* * *

Rilla Blythe stood in the dripping street outside the Lighthouse, hugging herself and balancing from side to side on her strappy silver sandals. They _pinched abominably_, but she was too excited to care.*

"Did you get your ID?" Olive asked in a harsh whisper.

"Of course I did," Rilla sniffed. "It's good, too."

Irene smiled over-sweetly. "Well you certainly _look_ nineteen with your hair like that. And such a cute dress! Not everyone can pull off that shade of green without looking like the Hulk, but it looks real pretty on you."

_Rilla felt flattered by Irene's condescension_. Irene and Olive were both seniors on the swim team and had adopted Rilla as a sort of pet. They french-braided her hair on meet days and let her sit at the back of the bus with them and Rilla loved them for it. They had insisted that Rilla simply _must_ come dancing with them at the Lighthouse, which was the only place to be. For weeks, Rilla had lain awake at night trying to imagine what it would be like: music thumping, lights flashing, a college boy — _boys! In the plural!_ — asking her to dance.

Luckily, all that nasty, dirty business with the water at the Dawson hadn't ruined things. Rilla was very glad that she had stashed her bag at Irene's rather than attempting an evening-to-night transformation on the fly. She'd left her waterlogged shoes on Irene's porch and tripped out toward the cab with dangly earrings and a bright, shimmery lip, ready for her first _really-truly grown-up party_.

"Huddle in, girls," Irene commanded, holding up her phone to take a group selfie. Rilla smiled her best selfie smile for the Snapchat filter, which festooned her ruddy-brown tresses with a crown of golden pansies.

The line was moving now, people shuffling forward toward a beefy man in a bulging black polo who sat beside a little podium checking drivers licenses. Every time he let a group in, the Lighthouse door swung open, spilling a bright torrent of chatter and dance music into the street, then swinging shut again and leaving the hopefuls with nothing but bass. As Rilla neared the front, she could catch glimpses of the multicolored lights of the dance floor, pulsing with the energy of the crowd.

Irene and Olive had more immediate concerns. They had struck up a conversation with a couple of sailors from the naval base and were being absorbed into their group.

"_There's just something about uniforms_," Irene sighed, winning a round of laughter from her new acquaintances.

Rilla hung back a little, suddenly shy when faced with the example of Irene and Olive's flirting. They giggled and simpered, finding a dozen excuses to examine the sailors' uniforms with their hands as well as their eyes. Rilla allowed her mind to wander, trying to identify the song playing behind the closed door, straining to hear a melody above the pounding beat.

Thus, she did not immediately realize that the group had moved on, and was a few steps behind when the bouncer drew his velvet rope across the entrance after waving Irene and Olive through. The girls turned back, not sure what to do.

"You go on," Rilla said casually despite the fluttering in her belly. "I'll catch up with you inthide."

Oh, great. Rilla _hadn't lisped for a year; and now at this very moment, when she was so especially desirous of appearing grown up and sophisticated, she must go and lisp like a baby! It was too mortifying_.

No one else seemed to notice, though. Irene blew Rilla a little kiss and Olive mimed "Text me!" and then they were gone, sucked into the particolored vortex of the Lighthouse door, leaving Rilla with the bouncer.

Rilla smiled, but the man was not charmed.

"ID, please," he said flatly, holding out a broad hand.

John had promised that his ID had always worked and Rilla believed him. Still, she nearly dropped the card, fumbling under the bouncer's skeptical eye.

He gave her card a single glance, then chortled. "Nice try, kid."

Rilla was trembling like a leaf, but she stood up straight and spoke_ in what she called her cold-pale tone_. "Is something the matter?"

"It's a fake," the man said in a bored voice, holding out the card to her. "And it says your name is _Bertha_. Try for something a little more believable next time."

"But my name _is_ Bertha," Rilla said _with such a fierce determination not to lisp that she fairly blurted the words out__._

"Yeah, right."

"But . . . but . . ."

The man opened his mouth to dismiss her, but was interrupted by a voice both familiar and wholly unexpected.

"Scott!" said Ken Ford, appearing from nowhere and holding out a fist to bump. "How the hell are you, man?"

_Rilla's heart skipped a beat—or, if that be a physiological impossibility, she thought it did._

"Ford!" replied the bouncer. "Long time, no see."

"Well, you know how it is. School's back and so am I. How's Mason? Still the terror of Pee Wee hockey?"

Scott chuckled. "Two goals on Tuesday. The coach wants him to try out for the travel squad."

Rilla remained utterly silent. Oh, this _was not to be borne_. To be turned away from the Lighthouse was humiliation enough, but to be dismissed in front of Ken Ford! Rilla had long _thought in her small heart that Ken was the nicest, handsomest boy in the whole world_, though _she was content to worship from afar_. _And now this wonderful being had caught her_ in the agonies of disgrace.** If only she could melt away without him really noticing her. Too late; Ken shot her a sidelong glance and winked one of those wonderful dark gray eyes.

"Thanks for keeping my date company," Ken said to Scott, draping his arm casually around Rilla's shoulder.

_Oh!_

"Isn't she a little young for you, Ford?"

Ken unfurled that winning smile and Rilla was utterly lost. "Young? Nah. Rilla and I go way back."

Scott frowned, undeceived. "I don't know any Rilla. Certainly not what it says on her very authentic driver's license."

"Haven't you ever heard of nicknames?"

The bouncer heaved a world-weary sigh. "Alright, alright. Tell you what. You tell me what name is on this girl's ID, and you can both go in. Deal?"

Rilla's heart sagged. She'd known Ken Ford all her life, but he'd never taken any notice of her. If he ever called her anything at all, it was _Kid_ or _Puss_ or _Spider_. Did he even know that her legal name was . . .

"Bertha," Ken said smoothly, not missing a beat.

This won a bark of laughter from Scott, who shook his head, half-grudging half-admiring, and reached for the clasp of the velvet rope. "I don't know how you do it, Ford."

Neither did Rilla. It was all very much like a fairytale, being rescued by a gallant knight who paid her cover and flashed another of his knee-buckling grins. As Rilla followed Ken through the Lighthouse door into the dazzling club with its _witching music_, she _felt as if her feet and her soul both had wings_.

*/*/*

"You're not here alone, are you?" Ken shouted over the din.

"No!" Rilla hollered. "My friends are here! With some sailors!"

"Some what?"

"_Sailors!_"

Ken nodded and looked over the heads of the dancers. Rilla wasn't at all sure she wanted him to find anyone. Irene and Olive might be queens of the swim team bus, but their company had nothing on Ken's. Pressed by the jostling crowd, Rilla was near enough to smell his cologne and measure herself against his impressive height, finding that her head would have fit perfectly under his chin if she only took a single step forward. She should have been searching for her friends, but she could not look away from Ken's face, the smooth, high brow, the full lips, the beautiful grey eyes that brightened when he spotted someone across the room.

"There!" Ken said, pointing across the dance floor. "That them?"

_A momentary break in the whirling throng gave Rilla a glimpse _of Irene standing near the bar, laughing with a couple of the sailors as they waited for their drinks.

"Yes," Rilla said, deflating a little.

But in the next instant, she was thrilling again because Ken had bent his head and was speaking directly into her ear in that _laughing, velvety voice which no girl could hear without a heartbeat_.

"_Can we have a dance?_"

Ken could have a dozen dances. A hundred, if he liked.

Rilla entrusted him with her hand and _he drew her in among the dancers._ What was playing? Something bright and happy that bubbled up through Rilla's limbs, buoyant and exhilarating. Ken felt it, too, and what a joy he was to to watch. Rilla could hardly believe that she was dancing with him, stepping into every space he made for her as he backed across the floor. The green dress moved with her hips and her hair tickled her shoulders and there was nothing in the world beyond the beat and Ken's gleaming smile. Without thinking, Rilla rested a hand on his chest and he did not move away. No. He pulled her closer, a strong hand in the curve of her lower back, and Rilla _knew every girl in sight envied her_.

Too soon, they reached the far side of the floor. The song was morphing now, skipping and speeding up to swamp the cheerful rhythm with something more frenetic. Rilla would have danced it anyway, but Irene and Olive were beside them.

"Oh, Rilla!" Irene gushed. "We were _so worried_ about you! Thank goodness you were in such excellent hands."

She beamed up at Ken, much to the annoyance of a freckled sailor.

"You girls should take better care of each other," Ken said, squeezing Rilla's shoulder with a brotherly affection that not even the most optimistic mind could spin into something more. "You have my number, Spider?"

Rilla flushed at the ridiculous nickname, vowing to murder Jem for inventing this small humiliation. She regained a flash of her triumph when she admitted that she did not, and had the satisfaction of watching Irene and Olive gape as Ken added himself to Rilla's contacts.

"You call if you need anything, ok? I'm supposed to be meeting the guys."

"You could stay," Rilla said hopefully. "Dance a little more?"

Ken chuckled, handing back her phone. "Thanks, but I'm good. You kids have fun, now."

Rilla was mortified by this _frivolous, insulting_ farewell, but she was determined not to let it show. Instead, she waved and smiled when Ken went off to find his own friends, pretending that dancing with Ken Ford was a commonplace occurrence, hardly worth mentioning, really.

Other boys asked Rilla to dance and she went with them willingly, determined not to let anyone ruin her fun. _She had so many partners that she had to split her dances. Her silver _sandals_ seemed verily to dance of themselves and though they continued to pinch her toes and blister her heels that did not interfere with her enjoyment in the least._ Let Ken Ford think she was a child if he liked. No one else seemed to, certainly not the other college boys, who seemed quite eager to answer her _demure, questioning look_. Rilla had gone on dates and kissed boys before, but oh, how silly and childish they all seemed now! Most of them had been her classmates, who might have been appealing enough on a Saturday night, necking in a parked car or the back row of a movie theater, but come Monday morning and the harsh light of geometry class would show them in all their gawky, acned, adolescent awkwardness. Certainly they had never made her feel like these boys did, desirable and graceful and powerful all at once.

"Look at you, Miss Rilla!" Irene squealed when Rilla broke free for a breather. "Enjoying yourself?"

"Yes," Rilla said, not even deigning to scan the room for signs of Ken.

"Do you want a drink?" asked Olive.

Rilla hesitated. She had already declined several offers from her dance partners, having read somewhere that it was madness to accept a drink from a stranger when you didn't know what he might have put in it. But Irene and Olive and many of the other girls near the bar were nursing candy-colored bottles that did look awfully refreshing. Rilla watched the bartender serve one, popping the cap and handing it directly to a girl in a cute purple crop top. That wouldn't be so bad. And Rilla was terribly thirsty.

The hard lemonade barely tasted alcoholic, though Rilla was pleasantly buzzed by the time she finished it. It helped loosen a giggle when she spotted Michael Anderson looking at her from across the dance floor. He had been a senior at Kingsport West High last year, and the best freestyle swimmer on the boys' team. Rilla had always thought he was cute, especially in his Speedo, though it turned out that he looked pretty good under the club lights as well. Michael had never noticed her at all, but he was looking now, dancing toward Rilla, beckoning with a toss of his blonde head.

Two songs later, they were intertwined in the middle of the crowd. The throbbing bass made Rilla bold enough to grind against him, even straddling his leg until the exhilaration prickling along her skin was only half alcoholic. Michael kissed her right there on the dance floor and she was enjoying herself too much to care who noticed. When he nuzzled up close to her ear and asked if she wanted to go walk along the sand shore with him, she agreed enthusiastically.

Perhaps the chilly breeze off the water should have cooled Rilla's ardor, but it did not. She pranced across the street and down over the embankment to a hidden little strip of beach shining pale in the moonlight. The heels of her silver sandals sunk into the sand, so Rilla kicked them off and laughed when Michael tossed his own shoes into a heap next to hers. He kissed her again, longer this time, and Rilla made a decision. Maybe some people still thought her beneath their notice, but they were the ones missing out. Rilla smiled at Michael and pulled him over into the sand with her.

*/*/*

Later, Rilla would reflect that she should have known it hadn't really meant much to Michael. Had he even really recognized her? Probably not. But Rilla had been caught up in the moment and no amount of should haves or would haves could ever reach back through time and actually change things. Would she have wanted to change them if it were possible?

Afterward, Michael held her hand as they walked back to the Lighthouse and kissed her goodbye and told her to be in touch, though he didn't give her his number.

Rilla searched for Irene and Olive among the thinning crowd, finally finding them in the bathroom, where Irene was on hair-holding duty. The floor was sticky with goodness knew what, but Rilla found that, having taken her sandals off, she could not bear to force them onto her blistered heels again.

The gauzy veil of euphoria was wearing off. _Her head ached — her toes burned_, and more besides. Taking the stall beside a still-heaving Olive, Rilla found that she was covered in gritty sand and did her best to clean herself up. The effort was notably imperfect.

"Don't worry," Irene said, washing her hands at the sink next to Rilla's. "My mother has a pot of herbal ointment that _beats all the fancy cold creams in the world. I'll put some on your heels before you go to bed_."

"And my sister sent me the instructions for her hangover cure," Olive added, swiping at her sweaty face and running mascara with a wet paper towel. "She swears by Pedialyte."

Rilla could only nod. Ointment on your heels and hangover cures! _So this is what your first party and your first beau and your first moonlit romance ended in!_

"You had a fine time, Rilla," Irene smirked. "_I saw how you slipped over to the sands with _Michael_ and stayed there ever so long with him. Your mother wouldn't like it if she knew_."

"_I'll tell my mother all about it_," Rilla said crisply. "She believes that women can make their own choices and shouldn't be ashamed. And so do I."

"Mmmm-hmmm," came a reply skeptical enough to make Rilla wonder for the first time whether she actually liked Irene Howard.

In the cab on the way back to Irene's house, Rilla pressed her forehead to the cool window and watched the lights of the city pass, biting the inside of her cheek. Her feet did hurt abominably. She sniffled up the Howards' gravel driveway, very glad that Ken Ford couldn't see her now, _limping along like a little girl with a stone bruise_.

When the other girls had fallen asleep in Irene's bed, Rilla sat by the window with her ointment and _gave up trying to hide the fact that she was crying_. If anyone had asked, she would have said that it was because her feet hurt, but that wasn't it. She wasn't sad, exactly, just feeling too many feelings to corral them into coherence. The Lighthouse had been wonderful and Michael had been sweet and somehow she still felt as if her first party, which had seemed such a triumph at first, had ended in disappointment.

Swiping at her phone, Rilla pulled up Ken's contact information just to prove to herself that he really had given it to her. He had, but only as a brush-off. _She felt suddenly lonely and unhappy. It was worse than if Ken had never noticed her at all. Was life like this—something delightful happening and then, just as you were reveling in it, slipping away from you? Rilla told herself pathetically that she felt years older than when she had left home that evening. Perhaps she did—perhaps she was. Who knows? It does not do to laugh at the pangs of youth. They are very terrible because youth has not yet learned that "this, too, will pass away." Rilla sighed and wished she were home, in bed, crying into her pillow. _Tears were futile, so she cried _in sheer disgust at the futility of tears_. When _the dawn came greyly in,_ it found Rilla asleep in the window seat, eyes buttoned up tight like a child.

* * *

Notes:

*Lots of this is adapted/paraphrased from _Rilla of Ingleside_, chapters 2-6, so I won't mark individual quotations unless they are from elsewhere.

**_Anne of Ingleside_, Chapter 34

Special thanks to Rilla expert kslchen for the beta read!


	12. Invitations

**Invitations**

* * *

Jerry did not know how these things worked. Did writers post a new chapter every week? Every month? As the spirit moved them?

Investigating, Jerry discovered that the blue-banner site would tell him how many chapters a particular story had, as well as when it had first been published and when it had been completed. Looking back through CallMeCordelia's stories, he found that they always began and ended on the same day of the week, though they averaged slightly less than one chapter per week. Maybe she took breaks sometimes.

In any case, _Shyness and Suggestibility_ had first published on July 15, which had been a Friday, and there had been ten weeks and ten chapters since. Therefore, Jerry concluded with satisfaction, he could expect chapter 11 on Friday.

But what time?

He spent much of Thursday fretting over that, feeling as if he were about to miss an appointment. Even at Morning Prayers, he felt fidgety, not quite able to relax during the service. It didn't help that the hymn was "As Pants the Hart," which was a weird one, wasn't it? All those thirsty souls being exposed and heated in the chase and all. Jerry didn't even bother to tell off Carl and Faith for snickering.

He got through the rest of the day alright, but his mind kept wandering back to CallMeCordelia's story in idle moments. Hopefully the next chapter would go into a bit more detail about that entail. Jerry only hoped that she would post early enough to keep him from spending the whole day in suspense.

He need not have worried.

The blare of his 7:00 alarm was still echoing in Jerry's ears when he refreshed the page on his phone and found a new chapter of _Shyness and Suggestibility_ waiting for him. Holy cats, it had posted over two hours ago! What time did Nan Blythe get up in the morning?

Jerry began to read, holding the phone so close to his nose that his 7:15 back-up alarm nearly startled him into dropping it. He silenced the alarm and kept going, muttering under his breath that this Mr. Collins was doing a very poor job of representing the clergy. What an insufferable twerp, equally happy to marry whichever Bennet sister was handy! Surely CallMeCordelia must be painting it on thick; the canon character couldn't possibly be this awful.

When he got to the end of the chapter, Jerry had several points to make in his anonymous review, but was brought up short by a note at the end of the page:

_Dear Guest: Thank you for all your lovely reviews! Christmas came early when I opened my email. Why don't you create an account? I'd love to be able to respond to you directly. For now, I will only say that I am very glad that you are enjoying this story and that you are right about Mr. Bennet and the entail. He could have challenged it and the fact that he did not makes him contemptibly feckless. I'll put it in my file of future story ideas: Lizzy discovers how to bar the entail! _😃_ For now, please accept a thousand thanks for your thoughtful reviews. I'll be smiling over them all day! Hope we can chat soon!_

Jerry froze. This was a note for him. Well, maybe not for _him_, Gerald Meredith, but for the Guest who was reading and reviewing anonymously. In other words, _him_.

Truth be told, Jerry had not really meant to leave any reviews at all. He had planned to read and then disappear into the ether, leaving CallMeCordelia none the wiser. But that blasted entail made no sense at all and he couldn't seem to help himself. It got easier after that, and pretty soon he was writing long, detailed reviews full of questions and observations and quibbles. Praise, too. She really was a good writer.

He read the note over again. It was such a bright, happy message — _Christmas came early!_ — obviously she had enjoyed the reviews. Honestly, Jerry had enjoyed writing them. On top of that, reading her note had him grinning like a _dizzy idiot_.

It wouldn't really hurt to keep commenting, would it? Maybe it was even a nice thing to do, seeing as the reviews had made CallMeCordelia so happy. It pleased Jerry to think of giving that little moment of unexpected happiness, like slipping a $5 bill into the pocket of a donated coat at the winter clothing swap. She would never have to know it was him.

Before he could change his mind, Jerry had clicked the "Sign Up" button. He used the burner email he kept for online stores and petition drives, but stumbled over the username. No real names. No birth years or locations or anything potentially identifying. If Nan Blythe ever found out he had read her story, she might very well murder him. Or at least yell at him quite a lot.

It wasn't hard to imagine. Nan had nearly lost it in class this week when Jerry had argued that the living tree doctrine could never adequately mediate between two competing normative commitments. Spluttering with suppressed fury, she had reminded Jerry of Princess Leia cursing out Han Solo: _why you stuck-up, half-witted, scruffy-looking nerf herder!_

That was it! There were millions of Star Wars fans all over the world, of all ages and genders. Anybody could claim the name _NerfHerder_.

That is, anyone could have claimed it in the past, but now it was Jerry's. There was a whole new part of the site to explore now — private messages and dashboards and stats and places to upload stories and pictures — but all that could wait. NerfHerder had a review to write before Morning Prayers.

* * *

When Faith returned home from basketball practice, she found Nan puttering around the common room with an armload of laundry and muttering under her breath.

"Cleaning?" Faith asked, setting her gym bag down beside the door.

Nan did not answer her directly, but brandished a handful of crumpled socks. "Why does she have to leave her clothes all over the place? Can't she at least keep her things in Di's room?"

No need to ask which _she_ Nan meant. The common room was certainly untidy, though, to be fair, the mess was not entirely Delilah's fault. Faith retrieved one of her own sweatshirts from the back of the futon and shrugged apologetically.

"Let me help you."

The offer took a little of the edge off of Nan's simmering temper. "Thanks," she said, shoulders sagging. "The bathroom's pretty bad, too."

Indeed it was. Faith wasn't one to notice a bit of disorder, but when she put her mind to seeing it, she marveled that three girls — make that four — could scare up such squalor in a single month. Every ledge in the shower was cluttered with tropical-colored shampoos and potions, the mirror was spattered with toothpaste or worse, and the trash can brimmed with unmentionables. Nan's rose-colored bath sheet was neatly folded on one rack, but Faith's own towel was balled up in the corner behind the door, while Di's towel bar sported three air-drying bras.

The mess didn't particularly bother Faith. In fact, she felt somewhat at home amid the chaos, as if she were back in the manse of her childhood where _love was the only law_.* In recent years, Rosemary had attempted to instill some basic domestic skills in her step-children, but Faith had not been particularly receptive to those lessons, being generally occupied with basketball doings and the irresistible allure of the sun-dappled Hollow. Still, she knew enough to clean up after herself and was vaguely embarrassed that she had not noticed that things had gotten so bad.

_The first thing was to take everything out_.** Faith emptied the contents of the bathroom, following Nan's lead by sorting things into piles. Then she stoppered the sink and ran it full of water and all-purpose cleaner, figuring that the utility was right in the name. She ran a washcloth over the toilet and shower fixtures with satisfactory results, but frowned at the stubbornly streaky mirror.

"You're supposed to clean glass with old newspaper," Nan said when Faith called her in to consult.

"I don't suppose we have any actual printed newspaper anywhere, do we?"

"I guess I could go find some," Nan said dubiously. "They still print a few hard copies of the _Redmond Argus_, don't they?"

"Yeah, they must. Coach Torres sometimes puts up clippings on the corkboard in the locker room."

They decided to leave the newspaper for later, hoping they might be able to scrounge a copy of the _Argus_ in the cafeteria. There was no getting around the fact that there were simply too many bottles of conditioner and body wash, but Faith lined them up under the sink, where at least they could not attack innocent bathers. Nan deposited a mountain of laundry in front of Di's door and added the rest of the common room refuse to the trash bag Faith had going. They smoothed and straightened, arranging the throw blanket and the eclectic collection of pillows on the futon.

"Where did you get this one?" Faith asked, holding up a small cushion embroidered with an elaborate flower border and the legend, _Girls Just Wanna Have Fundamental Rights_.

"I made it," Nan said with a slight elevation of her chin.

Faith recognized the challenge there, as if Nan were daring her to poke fun at her or embroidery in general. Well, if she was looking for ridicule, she could look elsewhere. Faith might not know a bobbin from a backstitch, but that didn't mean she couldn't admire Nan's talent. Besides, Una would love it.

"It's really good."

"Thanks," Nan said, relaxing. "I like to do needlework. It's soothing."

Faith turned the cushion over in her hands. It really was splendidly done, the prim pattern and old-fashioned letterforms sweetening the joke with a wink and a smirk.

"I mean it," Faith said. "You could open an Etsy shop or something."

Nan laughed. "I'll consider it if the whole law school thing falls through."

While Nan adjusted the furniture, Faith ran a cloth over whatever surfaces showed visible grime. The storage cube masquerading as an end table was particularly grubby, bearing the ring-stains of half a dozen coasterless cups of tea. Faith scrubbed at the circles, inadvertently toppling a framed photo of the Blythe family.

She righted it, peering at the happy faces. It must have been taken a few years ago, given that Di's hair touched her shoulders and sported a single stripe of magenta amid the natural red. Faith recognized Dr. and Mrs. Blythe and John, who had once been a bit of a beanpole. The young girl with braces must be Rilla and there was no mistaking Joy. That left the two boys she had never met. The dark-haired one was strikingly beautiful, with _finely modelled features_ and _brilliant dark grey eyes_ above a dreamy smile.*** The other one was loose-limbed and grinning, one sunburnt arm thrown around his brother's shoulder and the other resting on Joy's wheelchair. Faith smiled to herself, thinking he looked like a Saint Bernard puppy ready to bound out of the frame.

"What's the deal with your brother?" she asked, the question forming and escaping without an interval for thought.

"Which one?"

"Uh . . . John," Faith said, only then realizing that she wasn't completely certain of the others' names. "Carl says he's not very friendly. In fact, he says John ignores him completely."

Nan sank into the pile of pillows with a sigh. "Yeah, that sounds like John."

"What's his problem?"

"Who knows? He's always been a bit of a loner. And he doesn't really participate in family stuff. Tell your brother not to take it personally."

This did little to reassure Faith. She had found John rude and sullen on first meeting and nothing in Carl's subsequent descriptions had changed her mind. Then again, Nan had certainly improved on acquaintance, so perhaps her brother would as well. Faith hoped so, but reserved the right to intervene if not.

"What about the others?" she asked to stop herself from saying something barbed.

Nan scooted over, giving Faith enough room to assist in the cushion-crushing. Faith took the seat and held the photo between them.

"That's Walter," Nan said, pointing to the handsome black-haired boy. "He's a poet, or trying to be. He's off traveling in Nepal on some sort of silent meditation retreat."

"Why?" Faith tried to imagine sitting still for hours on end in perfect silence. No, thanks.

"Walter's always been into spiritual stuff," Nan shrugged. "We used to go to yoga together sometimes. The teacher really liked him because he would get very into the philosophy."

"I tried a yoga class at the SMAC once," Faith laughed. "They didn't really ban me from coming back, but they sort of did."

"What did you do to get banned from yoga?" Nan giggled, brown eyes twinkling.

"Nothing! I mean, not on purpose. I just kept falling over and I took out the girl next to me once or twice."

Nan buried her face in the embroidered pillow to smother her snickering. Faith laughed right along with her, remembering the yoga teacher's difficulty in maintaining a serene expression when Faith fell for the third time. She had meant to swear under her breath, but the room was so quiet!

"No silent retreat for you!" Nan chuckled.

"No. Definitely not. They could pay me a million dollars and I still wouldn't last a single day."

"That's more or less what Jem said."

"That's the brother who helped you move in?"

Nan pointed to the man with the laughing hazel eyes. Faith liked the look of him, but she did not have time for boys. Not with classes and work and basketball and MCATs barreling down upon her. Things were going so well right now, but it was a delicate balance and she absolutely did not need to add any complications to her life. Still, she could not deny that she _liked Jem's looks especially_.****

"I'm sure you'll meet him sometime," Nan said. "You should come to Sunday dinner one of these weeks; my parents are always asking after you."

Faith had reflexively refused similar invitations before. Now she surprised herself by saying, "Sure! That sounds like fun."

* * *

One golden October evening, Rilla accepted Irene's offer of a ride home from swim practice. Irene spent most of the ride bending her ear about Maddy Taylor's new haircut and auditions for the Spring musical, requiring nothing from Rilla but a sound of polite interest every now and again. That was good. Rilla didn't have the energy for much more than that. After a long day at school and a grueling swim practice, the gentle swaying of the car was lulling her to sleep, and Rilla wanted nothing more than to give in.

"Hey," Irene said, poking her arm. "Are you ok?"

Rilla jolted back from the edge of sleep. "Just tired," she said with a yawn.

"Well?"

"Well what?"

Irene huffed in exasperation. "Well have you heard from Michael yet?"

No, Rilla had not heard from Michael. Nor did she expect to. There had been a brief moment the morning after when she had checked her phone with absurd optimism before recalling that there had been no exchange of contact information. Rilla went on checking, though, scrolling down past the As in her contacts to get a glimpse of Ken's name between Taylor Fleming and Emily Fox. In the two weeks since the Lighthouse, Rilla had let her finger hover there at least once a day, imagining the casual messages and flattering selfies she could send accidentally-on-purpose to get a conversation thread established. But no. She, Rilla Blythe, would not go making a spectacle of herself for attention from anybody.

"Some things are private, Irene," she said with dignity as they pulled into the driveway.

"Oh my! I'll take that as a no."

Irene could take it however she liked. Rilla was just glad to be back at Ingleside, where the honey glow of the kitchen lights shone, promising sanctuary in the squashy armchair under the windows. She muttered perfunctory thanks for the ride and hoisted her backpack and gym bag, wondering idly whether Walter was lugging his own gear up and down the Himalayas. Up the ramp and into the mudroom, Rilla peeked into the kitchen. Mum was chopping greens while Joy explained something and Susan stirred a pot on the stove. All three heads turned when they heard the door and Rilla tried to wave and slip off her shoes at the same time.

"Rilla!" Mum beamed. "Just the person we need to settle things."

"Settle things?"

"Mum and I are at odds," Joy explained, "and Susan refuses to break the tie. So what should we have with our soup tonight? Grilled cheese or biscuits?"

Rilla dropped her bags next to the door and shuffled toward the armchair, gathering up a heaping armful of somnolent orange cat before she collapsed into the cushions.

"What kind of soup?"

"Spicy beef with bean sprouts and scallions," Susan replied.

"In that case, biscuits."

Mum's smile drooped a little as Rilla settled in to stroke Doc's cream-colored throat. "Why don't you come help us?" she said. "You could roll out the biscuit dough."

"I'm too tired," Rilla groaned. "Coach Oliver made us do stamina training today and my arms feel like jelly."

There was a little frown tucked away in Mum's expression, the one that meant that she disapproved but would not press the matter. If Rilla had had the energy, that look would have been enough to shame her into dragging herself out of the chair rather than risk disappointing Mum. As it was, drowsiness was quickly morphing into full-on exhaustion. Rilla was so tired she almost felt as if she could laugh over it. It did not help that Doc's purr was as soothing as any white noise machine.

"Alright, darling," Mum said lightly. "Though I really would like you to learn how to make biscuits one of these days. Maybe we can do them together for Thanksgiving."

"Sounds good," Rilla said without looking up from Doc.

"Will you be joining us for Thanksgiving, Susan?" Mum asked brightly enough to cover any lingering disapproval of Rilla's lily-of-the-field act.

"Certainly, Mrs. Dr. dear. Gladys has decided to host ours on Sunday this year, so there will be no more of that running back and forth."

The talk turned to menus and methods of turkey preparation. Rilla leaned her head against the soft back of the chair, eyes fluttering closed as she gave in to the dragging weight. Her hand fell still and Doc nuzzled up into it, imploring her for more scritches, but Rilla had no more to give. She was very nearly asleep when Mum pulled her back from the brink with a sharp tug.

" . . . been meaning to invite Ken Ford as well. Leslie and Omesh are still in Mumbai, you know, and it's been ages since we've seen Ken. I'll have to ask one of the boys for his phone number."

"I must have it," said Joy. "Just let me get my phone."

Rilla was awake with a vengeance. "I have it!" she blurted, startling Doc. "I have Ken's number, Mum. I can text him for you."

"Would you? Oh, thank you darling. Though wouldn't it be more polite to call?"

"No," Rilla said, rolling her eyes. Honestly, why did older people think interrupting someone and demanding they talk to you right this very moment was more polite than a nice, quiet text? Besides, a phone call didn't start off a message thread that, once begun, might be added to in a casual manner thereafter.

Rilla tuned out Susan's opinions on brine and set to composing her message.

_Hi Ken_

Bah. It wasn't a letter for goodness' sake; might as well start off with _My Dearest Kenneth_. Rilla began again.

_Hey! This is Rilla Blythe._

Oh right, like he knew so many Rillas she needed to put her last name in.

_Hey! My mother wants to invite you to Thanksgiving._

Ugh, no. Terrible. Try something lighter.

_Hey Ken! Message from Ingleside for you. Mum was wondering whether she could persuade you to join us for Thanksgiving. What do you say?_

Ok, better. Follow that thought.

Half a dozen tweaks later, Rilla took a deep breath and hit send. The invitation floated to the top of her screen, a lonely blue bubble under the tiny picture of Ken she had cropped from the group photo at last year's Christmas party. It showed only as "delivered," not "read," so Ken must be away from his phone. See? A text allowed him to respond at his leisure, which was much more polite than calling. Honestly, if everyone called instead of texting, the phone would _ring on an average every ten minutes at Ingleside_ and someone would have to drop what they were doing no matter what they . . .

A phone rang.

Rilla jumped, even though her own phone was quiet in her hand. Besides, she never turned her ringer on, let alone set it to that old-timey bell sound.

"That's me!" Mum dropped her knife and dried her hands on a dishtowel before rummaging through her handbag after the still-ringing phone. It took at least four rounds of the tinny bells before she extracted it. When she did, her face lit with rapture. "It's Walter!"

_Walter!_

Doc found himself unceremoniously dumped out of Rilla's lap and onto the floor, where the reproachful swishing of his tail went unobserved. Rilla only had eyes for Mum's screen.

"Hello, sweetheart!" Mum beamed.

"Hi, Mum!"

It was Walter, alright, though his hair was shaved close to the scalp and his cheeks were windburnt. But there was no mistaking the wonderful grey eyes, nor the smile when he caught sight of Rilla hovering over Mum's shoulder.

"Hello, there, Rilla-my-Rilla." _Walter's __musical voice sounded very beautiful to her — like the lilt and ripple of some silvery brook_.*****

Oh, why couldn't Rilla say something cleverer than _Hi!_ As if Walter had just been out for the afternoon and not completely out of contact for a whole month!

"We weren't expecting to hear from till next week," Mum said. "Is everything alright?"

"Yes, I'm fine. The weather on the way back was better than we expected. Hello, Joy! Hi, Susan!"

As they chatted through updates on the monasteries (_inspiring_) and the landscape (_sublime_), Rilla felt a pang of longing. She was so glad to see Walter, so extremely glad. But seeing him made her wish that he were home, sitting with her under the autumn-gold birches as they used to do before he went away. _Rilla loved Walter with all her heart_ and told him all her secrets. He never teased her as the others did, nor reckoned her worries at anything less than their full weight. Just now, Rilla felt as if she more to confide in him than she ever had before, but not here, in the bright light of the kitchen, half a world away.

"Are you coming home soon?" Rilla asked hopefully.

"Not right away. I'm headed down to Thailand for a while, and maybe Singapore after that."

Rilla deflated, but tried to keep the disappointment out of her face.

"What's in Thailand?" Joy was asking, though Rilla did not pay much attention to Walter's answer. Plenty of things, probably, enough to keep Walter busy for a month or a year. What if he stayed away as Jem had? Rilla loved Jem, of course, but his going away hadn't left such a gap in her life as Walter's had. She almost felt as if she had to store things up until Walter returned, and she didn't know how long she could last.

"Is Dad home?" Walter asked.

"No, he had an emergency surgery," Mum said.

"Car accident," Joy added. "Traumatic spinal injury."

Walter winced and Rilla scowled at Joy. She knew how Walter hated any sort of pain or ugliness!

"We'll tell him you called," Mum said gently. "And we'll talk again soon?"

"Definitely! I'm not sure how good my signal will be, but I'll be able to email now and update my Instagram. You'll check it, won't you, Susan?"

Susan pursed her lips, implying that Instagram ranked somewhere below poetry in her preferred methods of communication. Mum, however, promised that she would check every day and leave comments on all his photos. Rilla had shown her how to do that, and she was reasonably Instagram-proficient, though Snapchat eluded her. She had even set up an account for the Dawson.

"If there's anything you need, just tell us and we'll send it," Mum said.

"I will."

"Don't ride the elephants," Joy added.

"Wouldn't dream of it."

"Stay away from mosquitos," Susan warned.

"I'll do my best."

Rilla wasn't sure what to add. She wanted to say, _I miss you_ and _Come home soon_, but all she came up with was, "_Good-bye_."

"Bye, Rilla. Text me often, ok? Love to all."

Then Walter was gone. Not really, of course, or not for long. He would be home soon and oh, Rilla would have so much to tell him!

Her phone buzzed in her hand and she looked down, expecting to find a photo of Kathmandu or a kiss from Walter. Instead, she found the only thing that could have made her gladder.

_That you, Rilla? Tell the folks I'd love to come for Thanksgiving. Save me a seat!_

* * *

Notes:

*_Rainbow Valley_, Chapter 4, "The Manse Children."

**_Rainbow Valley_, Chapter 10, "The Manse Girls Clean House."

***_Rainbow Valley_, Chapter 3, "The Ingleside Children."

****_Rainbow Valley_, Chapter 4, "The Manse Children." In canon, Faith is interested in Jem from the first moment she sees him at the train station (before they meet). I toned down her comment to Jerry — "I liked Jem's looks ESPECIALLY" — by taking out the capitalization.

*****_Rilla of Ingleside_, Chapter 2, "Dew of Morning"

A note to my fellow Americans: Canadian Thanksgiving fell on October 10 in 2016.


	13. Rescue Blythes

**Rescue Blythes**

* * *

On Wednesday morning, Carl woke up coughing. The cold had started last week and was now bad enough that it would have warranted a sick day from Lowbridge High. But this was Redmond and Carl was much too busy to spend a day in bed sniffling and watching _Steven Universe_. There were lectures to attend and rat cages to clean, and none of that would be accomplished by wallowing, even if the mere act of standing up did send Carl into a flurry of breathless hacking.

No need to worry about waking John, seeing as the sun was up. He was long gone by now, the bed across the room neatly made and the stripey knit quilt folded at its foot. Carl only ever saw John late in the evenings, returning from hockey or the Cellar. They would nod wordlessly to one another before retreating into their headphones.

Sometimes, Carl would glance over to find John scrolling through his phone or texting, and wonder whether it mightn't be worth it to give social media another try. It seemed stupid to avoid it, but John would certainly notice another user three meters away. Unless he didn't. It was hard to say which would be worse.

There was no need to be self-conscious now, though. In the mornings, the room was as good as a single. Carl could play music aloud and sing along — _kiss me on the mouth and set me free, sing me like a choir_ — at least when it was possible to draw a clear breath. This morning, Carl couldn't do much more than wriggle into the skinny jeans that Caela had insisted were worth every penny.

The shopping trip had been her idea. Carl's $200 wouldn't have gone far at the mall, even if they stuck to the sales racks, so they had hit the thrift stores instead. They'd found the jeans at a consignment shop where Carl had still balked at the prices, even if neither of them could stop staring at the reflection in the dressing room mirror.

"You might save some money buying clothes that don't fit," Caela had said patiently, "but it costs you in other ways."

There was sense in that, and Carl had plunked down a sizable chunk of change rather than give up the jeans. They could economize elsewhere, pawing through the $5 shirt bin at Goodwill and holding off on accessories until payday. Eagle-eyed Caela had spotted a plum-colored corduroy jacket in the hands of an employee sorting new donations and sweet-talked it into Carl's basket before it ever hit the racks. She insisted that it was an early birthday present and wouldn't take no for an answer.

Every morning since, Carl had smiled when it was time to get dressed. The church shirts were still there, but now they hung beside prints and patterns and the sort of colors that Carl would never have dared wear back home. Today's selection — a short-sleeve button down in blue and purple Madras shot through with pink — was so cheerful that no one could possibly be sick or sad while wearing it. Carl grinned foolishly while slipping it on, but it just felt so _right_.

Carl's good mood was only strengthened by the crisp air of a windy yellow October morning. The evergreens on the slope behind Gardner Hall were their usual stately selves, but the sugar maples and beeches were dressed for a party. Once, long ago, Mother had said that the trees dressed up to celebrate Carl's birthday. These first two weeks of October had felt like a special time ever since, with flaming leaves and migrating geese and the loamy scent of litterfall impossible to escape.

Unless, of course, you had a stuffy nose.

Carl hurried down the First Year quad and onto the main green, fishing out a mostly-unused tissue and reaching deeper into the plum corduroy pocket to touch the cool curve of the black sea stone at the bottom. Carl had picked it up on the rock shore on a day last year when life seemed just a little too hard. It was out of place among the red pebbles, its perfect surface worn smooth by the battering waves. That had seemed like a reminder from God and Carl had carried it ever since.

The bells for Morning Prayers began to ring, and Carl had to jog to reach the chapel steps in time, arriving in a fit of coughs.

"Are you alright?" Faith asked, handing over a hymnal.

"Fine! Just got up late."

The choir was already filing in and Carl ducked shyly when the sandy-haired baritone second from the left smiled across the stalls. That was no way to clear your mind of distractions. Though, of course, it was only polite to pay scrupulous attention to the choir when they began to sing.

*/*/*

After the service, Carl lagged behind Jerry and Faith as they hashed out the details of their departure for home. Monday was both Thanksgiving and Carl's 19th birthday, and they meant to leave on Friday after classes if Faith could get permission to miss practice.

"Una said Bruce has been counting down the days till we come home," Faith said. "He made a paper chain with the dates on the links and tears one off every night before he goes to sleep."

Carl swallowed painfully against a lumpy throat. Una had been a wonderful correspondent, sending twice-weekly emails about all the Glen doings, but she had not always received a timely response. They had traded a few phone calls, but not with any regularity. It wasn't that Carl didn't miss home, but it was so easy to get wrapped up in Redmond and its rhythms and forget that there was a world beyond. Carl resolved to find something interesting to send Bruce this morning and email Una before going to bed tonight.

". . . on Friday?"

Carl looked up to find that Faith and Jerry had stopped walking and seemed to be expecting a reply.

"Sorry, what?"

"Honestly, Carl," Faith sighed, "you're as bad as Father. I asked if you have to work on Friday."

Carl coughed. "No. I traded my Friday shift to work tonight instead."

"Good," Jerry said. "Even if Faith can't get out of practice, I think we should still leave late Friday night. I'd rather drive late than have to wake up early."

Carl coughed again, reached for the tissue.

"You're sure you're ok?" Jerry asked, peering more closely.

"It's just a cold, Jerry. Stop fussing."

If Jerry flinched, Carl was too busy coughing to notice. They waved their goodbyes and Carl trundled off toward the biology building, thinking that there would be just enough time to run upstairs to the exhibit hall and snap a photo of the velociraptor skeleton for Bruce before class. There were other fossils, too, but you never could tell when a species would be demoted from Bruce's list of dinosaurs in good standing. Best stick with velociraptors, which could do no wrong.

The climb to the gallery left Carl winded, but the velociraptor was right where it ought to be, smiling for the camera with all its horrible teeth. _For Bruce. Love to all. See you on Friday!_ Then back down again and into the seat beside Caela moments before the lecture started.

"Looking good," she mouthed, nodding her approval.

A weak smile covered up the fact that Carl was beginning to feel a little lightheaded, not having had time for breakfast.

The lecture was on chapter five, _The Variety of Life_, and Carl took dutiful notes, at least until sleep tiptoed in on little cat feet. Or was that fog? Words tumbled drunkenly off the ruled lines:

_Penguin colonies are_

_. . . . . . . . . . . . like tropical_

_. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . storms . . ._

When Carl jolted awake, Professor Liu was talking about cotton top tamarins, so the penguins had probably been a while back. Maybe Caela could fill in the blanks later.

"Are you going home for Thanksgiving?" she asked as they stowed their notebooks at the end of the lecture.

"Yeah. Friday."

"My mum's picking me up tomorrow morning. We do our Thanksgiving on Saturday so that I can be with my dad and his wife on Monday."

"Won't you miss class?"

Caela seemed unconcerned. "A bit. But nothing fatal."

They walked back toward the green together, Caela explaining her family history in a bewildering level of detail. Carl made polite sounds of interest but didn't register anything specific until the appearance of two oncoming figures.

"_Look_," Carl interrupted Caela with a sharp whisper. "That's my roommate and his hockey friend."

"Where?"

They were close enough now that Carl couldn't answer without being conspicuous. Ken might not have noticed them, but John definitely had. He gave Carl a silent nod of recognition as they passed and Carl was very glad of the cute shirt.

"_That's_ your roommate?" Caela said, stopping in the middle of the path and turning full around to gawk.

"_Caela!_" Carl gripped her by the elbow and dragged her back into motion, hoping John had not heard. "Don't _stare_."

"Can I have the other one?"

"Ohmigod no one is having any one!"

"Is he straight? The friend, I mean."

"How would I know that?"

"I mean, you could _ask_. Help a girl out!"

The idea that Carl could just casually ask Ken Ford whether he liked girls was so absurd there was nothing to do but laugh. The rasping cough that followed was easy to predict by now, but not easy to stop.

"That sounds bad, sweetie," Caela said, turning serious. "Can you go sleep it off?"

"Class," Carl gasped. "I can't miss class."

"You really can."

They had reached the path where Caela had to peel off for her English seminar. She offered Carl a farewell hug, ignoring the flow of students that eddied around them.

"Text me if things get bad with your dad," Carl said, returning the embrace.

"Oh, don't worry," Caela smirked. "At this point, his grammatical gymnastics are almost entertaining. Besides, I'm not staying overnight or anything. I just have to last through pie."

"Good luck."

"You, too. See you Tuesday. Maybe I can take you out to dinner for your birthday?"

"Sounds like a plan."

That was something to look forward to. But first, Carl had to get through the rest of today. Statistics dragged on and lunch was unappetizing. In Chemistry, Carl coughed enough that a boy sitting nearby got up and changed his seat, which was fair. Afterward, in the sweet refuge of Pride House, Ryn clucked their tongue and insisted on making a whole pot of mint tea. Carl had meant to work a problem set for Stats, but made the mistake of sinking into the sofa. After a few sips, sleep came on like a freight train.

Carl slept a long time. Just how long was hard to say, but it was dusk when Ryn perched on the edge of the sofa and jostled the crocheted afghan with a gentle hand.

"Hey, Carl," they said, not unkindly. "I hate to wake you, but the Prison Abolition Committee has a meeting in here at 7:00."

Their words reached Carl as a jumble, only arranging themselves into sense gradually.

"What — time — is it?"

"About quarter of seven." Ryn sounded sympathetic. "Do you need someplace to stay? There are cots upstairs . . ."

Carl was already struggling up from the enveloping depths of the sofa. "No. I mean, thanks. But I'm supposed to be at work!"

Two minutes later, Carl was double-timing across campus toward the biology labs. The golden glow of autumn had turned dismal, with a stiff wind off the harbor that revealed the pale undersides of the remaining leaves. Carl hurried through the gathering dusk, stomach pangs providing useless reminders of the day's several skipped meals. No help for it now. Would Faith be working the late shift at the Cellar tonight? Pizza would be alright.

The lab was quiet. Usually, there were still several graduate students working when Carl arrived, but today there was only one. She was in the back, cleaning the awful little rodent guillotine, and Carl gave her a wide berth. It wasn't squeamishness; Carl wanted to be a biologist and a certain amount of blood and guts was involved. But still, there were limits.

Carl pulled on a lab coat and a pair of gloves before retrieving a cart full of clean, sterile cages. They were plastic bins about the size of a file drawer with wire trays for food and water suspended over the top, meant to hold two rats at a time. Carl wheeled them to a work station and prepped them, sprinkling the bottoms with litter pellets and a handful of clean bedding before retrieving the occupied cages from their racks. They seemed heavier than last week.

In training, the animal techs had been taught to grasp the rats firmly around the shoulders to transfer them from a dirty cage to a clean one quickly and efficiently. Carl hated it. Rats were clever enough to tell one person from another, so Carl cradled them and let them get acquainted at their leisure. They investigated fingers and palms, and poked their little ratty noses into every fold of fabric and pocket corner. Sometimes, Carl even sang to them so that they would be comforted by sound as well as smell. Softly, of course, and only after the grad students had gone home. Even tonight, when a pounding head and constant coughing breaks might have deterred fair-weather choristers, the rats still got their hoarse snatches of _Blue Neighbourhood_. It was their little joke — _kiss me on the mouth and set me free, but please don't bite. _They never did.

Carl was grateful to spend a few hours with animals, even if they were sad, confined things. There had been any number of small companions over the years, from the chance-caught frogs smuggled into Sunday school to the garter snake that rode along on a visit to Mother's hospital room. That was one of Carl's clearest memories of her; Mother laughing in her hospital bed and pronouncing the snake a fine little beastie. She hadn't been afraid of anything, not even spiders. She had promised she would get Carl a tarantula when she got better.

By the time Carl had loaded the last of the dirty cages into the washer, the shift had been over for half an hour. There wouldn't be time to email Una now. But they'd all be home in two days. That would be alright, wouldn't it? Carl tidied up and punched out, wondering whether it were possible to stay awake long enough to get back to the dorm. Well, there was nothing for it; Gardner Hall was on the other side of campus and the only way to get there was to walk.

Unfortunately, the ominous breezes of the afternoon had fulfilled their promise of rain. Carl stepped out into a _chill, penetrating drizzle_ that soon soaked through both jacket and shirt, leaving the_ drenched little figure chilled to the bone_. _There was something very strange and terrible in being awake when all the rest of the world was asleep._ Carl felt the shiver of it, hurrying through the science complex and past the main green, teeth chattering all the way. There had been another time like this, when the cold had gotten down past cloth and flesh and into the marrow of Carl's bones, but it was not a time that bore remembering. It was fuzzy anyway, in the way of childhood memories. Just a series of impressions, really. The cold and the loneliness and the terrible conviction that a tombstone had come to life . . . _it's — moving — about — it's coming — at — me — keep it — away — please_. Carl shivered once for fright and again for cold, searching the soaked jacket pocket for the smooth black stone. That was then and this was now, but the feeling was the same, of knowing that you _would never get warm again_.*

But no, there was Gardner Hall, looming high above the First Year residential quad with its welcoming lights. Carl fumbled with the door, swiping several times before the ID card lined up correctly. Had the hallway always been so long? Carl shucked off wet clothes, but did not stop to hang them up. Where were those pajama pants? They must be here somewhere. Yes, but the shivering was so strong now that it was difficult for Carl's feet to find the holes. The thought of searching for a shirt seemed too daunting in the face of_ sore throat and aching head and crimson cheeks, _so Carl merely collapsed into bed and_ rolled up in the twisted bedclothes_, clutching the sea stone and wishing, with one last coherent thought, to go home.**

* * *

When John awoke on Thursday, Carl was still a motionless bump on his bed, comforter pulled up to his ears. That was not unusual. John always woke at 5:30 without even the benefit of an alarm, and always had. He liked the early morning, when he could move about the world unobserved and uninterrupted. He liked being at the Stuart Memorial Athletic Complex when it opened so that he did not have to wait for his favorite machines. He liked listening to his music as he ate breakfast alone at his regular table in the cafeteria. Later in the day, when classes started, students would be running across the quad scarfing down bagels or balancing venti coffees on top of their books. If they would just keep a better schedule, they could sit and have a nice omelette from the omelette station, eaten with a fork and napkins and everything.

It was an ordinary Thursday, so John kept his ordinary Thursday schedule. After breakfast, he took his medicine and headed off to Physics, followed by Materials Lab, then lunch and an afternoon devoted to problem sets. Wilkie texted about dinner, but John reminded him that Thursday was a hockey night, earning himself a sullen silence. So far, so normal. John met up with Ken for a quick bite, then spent an invigorating couple of hours slamming people into the boards. In fact, nothing unusual happened until he got home around ten and found Carl still curled under his blanket.

That was not normal at all.

"Carl?" John called, taking out his earbuds.

There was no answer, not even a stirring. Had he been in bed all day? John picked his away across the minefield of shoes, books, and laundry on Carl's side of the room until he stood over his roommate, watching to see whether he was breathing. He was, but shallowly and too quickly.

"Carl?" he said again, feeling slightly queasy.

John reached out to jostle Carl's bare shoulder and recoiled at the first scalding touch. He tried again, laying a broad hand against Carl's forehead, which was so hot it was hard to believe that it was flesh. Carl gave a quiet moan and began to shiver.

_Right._

John's immediate instinct was to ask Susan what to do, but Susan was certainly asleep by now. Besides, she rarely turned her phone on unless she wanted to make a call herself, and had never in her life responded to a text. He'd rather not call Mum or Dad unless he absolutely had to. That left . . .

_Joy._ Joy always had iMessage open, any time of day or night. Joy.

John pulled his phone from his pocket and scrolled, looking for his text message thread with Joy. Their last exchange was him wishing her a happy birthday back in June, followed by a brief "Thanks!"

_Joy?_

The little gray ellipsis popped up immediately.

_John?_

_I think my roommate is sick_

_What kind of sick?_

_fever and chills and unconscious_

The ellipsis appeared, disappeared, appeared again.

_Unconscious or asleep?_

John shook Carl's shoulder, not roughly, but vigorously. All he got was a whimper like a wounded animal.

_I can't wake him up._

_You need to call the ambulance. I think Jem's on shift tonight. Call right now._

_ok thanks_

John was glad he had thought to put the number for Redmond Emergency Medical Services into his contacts as _AAAmbulance_ so that it would always appear at the top of the list. No time to waste in an emergency.

The line beeped once.

"RedmondEmergencyMedicalServices. ThisCallIsBeingRecorded. WhatIsYourLocation?"

John wished the dispatcher wouldn't mumble like that, especially when the connection was already noisy. Still there was a script to these things and_ location_ had been clear.

"I'm at Gardner Hall, room 126."

"AndWhatIsYourEmergency?"

John recited Carl's symptoms to the dispatcher, who told him to stay on the line and wait for the ambulance.

"What's your roommate's name? I'll pull up his record."

"His last name is Meredith. Carl Meredith."

There was a pause on the other end. "Hmmm. Sure he's a Redmond student?"

"Sorry?"

"I said, are you sure that he is a current Redmond student?"

"Yes."

"Last name Meredith. What's the first name again?"

"Carl."

"Not Gerald?"

"No."

"Ok. There are a couple of Merediths in the system, but I'm not seeing a Carl. Hang on, let me check with my supervisor."

John waited, phone pressed to his ear, watching Carl take rapid little breaths. The unexpectedly dark eyelashes fluttering against his crimson cheeks made John think of feathers and the nervous, flickering grip of the little birds that would alight on his fingers when Susan filled his palm with nasturtium seeds.

A more mechanical buzz broke John's reverie. Carl's phone was somewhere in the mess beside his bed and it was angry. John dug through the pile, tossing aside a crumpled Madras shirt and finding a pair of Carl's jeans pulsing with an incoming call. He did not reach it in time to answer, but a new text from _Jerry_ popped up on the lock screen, covering a selfie featuring a laughing Carl, his brother and sister, and another dark-haired boy and girl:

_Carl, you haven't answered any of my messages all day. If you don't respond to this one, I'm coming to find you._

John attempted to reply, but the phone was locked and Carl was in no state to give the passcode. Maybe he had enabled Touch ID?

The dispatcher was back and asking more questions, but John ignored him, dropping his own phone on the bed. He pulled back the comforter and reached for one of Carl's hands, only now noticing that his sheets were drenched with sweat. Where was that ambulance?

It wasn't an invasion of privacy, not really. John had no interest in snooping through Carl's phone; he only wanted to tell Jerry that his brother was sick and that he should probably come over as soon as possible.

The thin hand was limp and clammy, with a smooth black stone tucked into the palm that fell away at the first touch. John shuddered slightly at the deadness of it as he dried Carl's thumb on the blanket and pressed it to the Home button.

_Success._

There were several unanswered texts from Jerry, beginning with Carl having missed Morning Prayers. They grew increasingly concerned over the course of the day, culminating in the ultimatum.

With the battery down to its last 1%, there was no time to waste. John typed,

_This is Carl's roommate. He's pretty sick. I called the _🚑

When he hit send, the message app helpfully converted the last word into a playful little emoji ambulance. John cringed, but the reply was instantaneous.

_I'm on my way._

The message lasted only a moment before the phone went dead in John's hand. He plugged it into his own charging cradle, figuring it was the least he could do. For a moment, the room was horribly still. Then the familiar Apple logo lit up Carl's screen and someone gave a firm knock at the door.

Jem had on his Doctor Face. All the Blythes knew Doctor Face, the calm, determined expression that overtook Dad's grin any time there was an emergency involving injury or illness. It was a relief to see it now, steady and reassuring above the dark blue collar of Jem's paramedic uniform. Behind him, a short woman with a pixie cut and a thin, acne-faced man wheeled a gurney, much to the interest of the neighbors poking their heads out of rooms up and down the hall.

"Too much fun?" Jem asked, raising copper brows.

"Hardly," John muttered, stepping aside and pointing toward Carl's bed.

Jem crouched at Carl's bedside and asked him a series of quiet questions that got no coherent response. Very gently, he rolled Carl onto his back and took his vitals.

"Ok," he said to his colleagues, voice soft but authoritative. "Let's get Tori in here with the gurney. I'm going to start an IV."

Carl did not wake when Jem and Tori transferred him to the gurney, though he winced when John turned on the overhead light so that Jem could find a vein.

"That's good," Jem said brightly. "Reacting to light."

The chipper reassurance could not mask the obvious fact that Carl's breathing was still too fast, nor that his bare chest was toad-belly pale under its sheen of sweat. He didn't open his eyes, not even when Jem stuck him with a needle. John was no doctor, but that did not seem promising.

There was a flurry of activity at the door as the acne-faced man attempted to bar someone from the room and was unceremoniously shoved aside.

"_Carl?_"

John recognized the slight, dark-haired man from moving-in day, though he was considerably less composed now.

"It's ok," John told the paramedic. "He's his brother."

Jerry didn't seem to notice that there was anyone else in the room, rushing to Carl's side and grasping a lax, white hand.

"What's wrong with him?"

"He's dehydrated," Jem said coolly as he adjusted the IV bag. "We're going to take him downtown to the hospital."

"Not to the infirmary?" Jerry asked, wide-eyed.

"No," Jem said gently. "They'll be able to run some tests at the hospital."

"Is he going to be ok?"

"I'm sure he will. Do you want to ride along?"

Jerry nodded, then remembered his manners.

"Jerry Meredith," he said, extending a hand over the gurney to Jem.

"Jem Blythe. Let's get going, alright?"

With a clank of railings and a clatter of wheels, the gurney set off down the hallway, parting the sea of gawkers. John was left standing in the doorway, staring after them as they disappeared.

* * *

Notes:

*_Rainbow Valley_, Chapter 31, "Carl Does Penance"

**_Rainbow Valley_, Chapter 10, "The Manse Girls Clean House"

To Guest: You are asking all the right questions. How would Rilla, the non-biscuit-baker, deal with a baby? And what choices might she make in an era with modern medicine? What role will Anne and Gilbert play (and how much will Rilla tell them)? You raise many important points and I hope to get to them all in good time!


	14. Enough Nourishing Things

**Enough Nourishing Things***

* * *

Faith Meredith hated hospitals. There were good reasons for that, catalogued in the back of her mind like recipe cards for every dish she had never learned to cook. It was something of a problem, what with wanting to be a doctor and all, and looking to spend the next forty or fifty years of her life practically living in the wretched places.

But that would be different. A hospital was a battlefield and Faith Meredith meant to go in armed to the teeth.

Not like this. Not running scared and ignorant, pajama bottoms flapping and muddy at the hems, so flustered that she was reduced to begging the overnight receptionist to direct her to the emergency department despite the blaring red letters of the gigantic EMERGENCY sign immediately to her right.

Just the smell of hospitals brought her back to her earliest memories. She was five, clutching Jerry's hand as Father guided Una and Carl down the corridor to the room where Mother was recovering from surgery. She was six, chatting about kindergarten as she curled up with her spine against the bed-rail, her fingers flicking the end of Mother's beautiful blue scarf. She was seven, being led into a dim room that other people were leaving in tears.

Now she was twenty-one and bursting through the door to the emergency department at Kingsport Hospital with the sort of energy that left much larger defenders sprawled in the paint, begging the referee to call a charge.

Faith hadn't gotten Jerry's first call, nor his second. Faith did nothing by half-measures, not even sleep, and it usually took at least two alarms to drag her bleary-eyed from bed and chase her stumbling toward the basketball team's 6:00 workout. Thus, she did not wake until Jerry had called enough times for her phone to buzz itself right of the edge of the desk and crash to the floor.

Faith had rolled over and fished it up, too late to answer the call, but in time to see that she had missed five others and text messages besides.

_Carl's really sick. I'm in the ambulance with him going to the hospital._

_We're at the emergency room. Are you on your way?_

_ANSWER YOUR PHONE FAITH!_

It was past midnight, too late for buses. After briefly pondering whether the sprint downtown would count as her morning training, Faith called a cab, hoping the $20 bill she kept for emergencies would cover the fare and that whoever hung around the college waiting to pick up lone girls in the wee sma's wasn't a creep.

Luckily, the driver said nothing besides _hello_ and did nothing but drive. Faith tucked her keys back into her pocket and texted furiously from the backseat:

_Sorry. On my way. Is he ok?_

She asked the same question when she pushed past a tall paramedic and into Jerry's arms outside a curtained bed just beyond the nurses' station.

"He's ok," Jerry assured her. "You just missed the doctor. They gave him fluids and antibiotics and he should perk up soon."

"Is he conscious?"

"Sleeping."

"Faith?" a quavering voice contradicted from behind the curtain.

Faith, Jerry, and the paramedic turned as one, peeling back the barrier to reveal Carl, damp-haired and pale, but very much awake.

For half a heartbeat, Faith was petrified by the dark blue eyes staring up over the hospital gown, but no, Carl was alright, an apologetic little smile playing over his lips.

"Sorry to make you come down here," he said quietly. "I'm fine, really."

"You are not fine," Faith huffed, flopping into the chair beside the bed and taking Carl's hand in both of hers. "And you are not allowed to be sorry. I'm just glad to see you awake and talking. What happened, honey?"

"The doctor said I have pneumonia."

Faith flicked a glance at Jerry, who was not quite succeeding at keeping his face impassive. From the look of things, he hadn't forgotten last time any more than she had.

Faith turned back to Carl, her voice steady and her touch gentle. "It wasn't so bad yesterday. What happened?"

"It got worse all day," he said, pausing to cough. "And then I got caught out in the rain after work. I thought I could just sleep it off, so I went to bed. But then I couldn't get up."

"Carl Meredith, you should have stayed home from work if you were getting worse! And you should have called me. I would have checked on you. Not abandoned you to the tender mercies of that arrogant little . . ."

Jerry cleared his throat pointedly enough to interrupt Faith before she said anything that couldn't be uttered in a church.

"Ah, yes," said the paramedic, who seemed to be struggling against a laugh. "I see you've met my younger brother."

Faith looked up sharpish, finally registering the man as more than just a uniform. He was tall, with dark red curls and broad shoulders, and Faith knew his face as soon as she bothered to look.

"You're Jem Blythe. Nan and Di's brother."

"I am. And you are Faith Meredith, the shooting guard who leads the league in moving picks."

"Hey!"

He wasn't wrong exactly — Coach Torres chewed Faith out for setting illegal screens at least once a week. But those tirades had never come with such a maddening twinkle of hazel eyes over a cheeky grin. Jem extended a broad hand that engulfed Faith's when she offered it. His was warm and firm and friendly rather than professional.

"Well . . . thank you, Jem," she said, acutely aware that she had not had a chance to brush her teeth. "For looking after Carl. We can take things from here. You must have to get back to your ambulance."

"Nope," Jem grinned. "Shift ended an hour ago. I've just been shootin' the shit with Jerry here."

Jerry's eyes widened a little at both the turn of phrase and the chummy jostle of Jem's elbow, but he did not protest. Faith looked askance at them, then back at Carl, whose chuckle turned into a fit of wracking coughs.

"Easy there," Faith soothed, her hand firm on his back as he leaned into it. It was an awful sound, followed by an even more terrible wheezing when Carl tried to catch his breath. He clutched her other hand convulsively, sharp fingertips digging into her flesh, but she did not flinch. "Easy. Shhhh."

"Have you called Father?" she asked Jerry, easing Carl back onto the pillows.

"No, Faith, don't . . ." Carl pleaded, but she hushed him.

"I wasn't sure whether I should wake him up," Jerry said. "He'll want to drive down tomorrow, so I thought it was better to let him sleep."

"Please, no . . ."

"You be quiet, Carl."

Honestly, there was a decent chance Father hadn't even gone to bed yet, depending on how enamored he was with whatever he was reading at the moment. But if that were the case, he'd be in no fit state to drive anyway. The thought of Father pelting over the Confederation Bridge in his pajamas on no sleep gave Faith pause. Perhaps it was better to wait till Rosemary was awake and let her decide what to do. She'd be up in a couple of hours.

"Alright," Faith said reluctantly. "I'll call home in the morning. You go back to your room and sleep, Jerry."

Jerry bristled. "I'm not going anywhere."

No, he wouldn't. Last time . . . well, no one had ever really been able to convince Jerry that last time hadn't been his fault. Faith shuddered, remembering how terrifying it had been to return to the Charlottetown hospital where Mother had died, how she and Una had huddled together in the waiting room and cried while _Jerry, wild with remorse, refused to budge from the floor of the hall outside of Carl's door_.**

"You've been up all night, Jerry," Faith said more gently. "Let's at least take shifts."

Jerry chewed his lip. "Alright. I'll go find some coffee or something. But I'll be back in an hour."

"If I may," Jem interjected, "there's a great little 24-hour coffee shop around the corner. Much better than the stuff from the vending machine. And good donuts, too. Why don't I show you?"

"Bring me a cruller," came a reedy voice from the bed.

"That's the spirit," said Jem.

* * *

It was certainly a good thing that Jem knew where they were going, because Jerry would have missed the place entirely. The grimy little shop didn't even appear to be open, though closer inspection revealed a large index card affixed to the glass door with packing tape:

_DOUGHBOYS  
__open 24 hours  
__no cats allowed_

A bell jingled when Jem pushed the door open, summoning a rotund little woman to the counter. Her initial glare softened when Jem greeted her with a jovial inquiry after the health of her husband and how her daughter was getting along at her new job.

"Mrs. Mac, this is my friend Jerry," he said, delivering a shoulder slap that would have made Jerry wince if he had not been so resolutely determined not to. "His little brother is ill up at the hospital and Jerry here needs a bit of sustenance so he can sit up with him."

"Och, the poor lad. Not too ill, I hope?"

"Not for long," Jem assured her. "They'll have him back to school in a couple of days."

Mrs. Mac nodded and bustled off through a swinging door to a kitchen where someone was clattering pans with enough verve that they must be doing it intentionally. Jerry's eye slid over the whole place in a single glance, there being not much to see and less to recommend it. The glass-fronted counter boasted an old cash register and a couple of opaque aluminum shakers beside a scraggly artificial flower in a chipped vase, while the tracks that should hold bakery trays were empty and only dimly visible through the scratched glass. There were two small booths and an orphan chair tucked up next to the garbage can, but other than that, the place was bare. Jerry felt some belated sympathy for Nan and her baby wipes.

Jem took the booth under a bare bulb, sighing as he melted into the seat. Jerry slid in across from him, trying not to touch anything with his bare skin.

"Don't worry," Jem said, misreading his pained expression. "He looks a lot better already. Alert. Talking. He'll be fine."

"Yeah," Jerry agreed. "I just wish I had checked in on him earlier. I was getting worried when I hadn't heard from him all day. I had just about made up my mind to go looking for him around dinnertime, but then . . . he's almost 19. I don't want to fuss over him, you know?"

Jem grinned. "I do."

Jerry stared glumly at his hands. "I should have gone. I've always tried to look out for the others and I've never gotten it right. Ever. Any time I try to intervene, it ends in disaster, and now when I _don't _intervene . . ."

"Hey," Jem interrupted him, leaning forward. "You can't beat yourself up like that. When was the last time you saw Carl before the ambulance?"

"Yesterday morning."

"Yesterday! And did you have any reason to think something was wrong?"

"He had a cold."

"A cold! Come on, Jerry. You can't make yourself responsible for keeping eyes on your brother every single day and fretting over the sniffles. You'd smother him."

"I should have checked on him earlier, not just left him out there on his own."

"You should give yourself a break," Jem said earnestly. "Carl's fine and you've got nothing to feel guilty about."

"Right."

Mrs. Mac materialized beside them holding two bowl-sized cups of coffee. She set one down in front of Jerry and offered him a fistful of creamers from her apron pocket.

"Thanks, black's fine," he said, hoping the stuff was potable.

"So you're a law student?" Jem asked, shaking out half a dozen sugar packets.

Jerry didn't remember having told him that, but the last several hours had been a bit of a blur. He confirmed that he was and was surprised when Jem chuckled.

"Nan's been raging about you for weeks. I don't know what you've done to get her goat, but I may have to pick your brain for pointers."

Jerry attempted to disappear into his coffee, which was, against all probability, quite tasty. When he could slurp no longer, he asked, "How'd she get into that class, anyway? It's just for law students."

"I imagine she asked politely. There aren't really many rules that don't have some wiggle room."

Jerry felt a retort gathering. If it had been Nan sitting across from him, he might have replied that rules were there to make things fair for everybody and it wasn't right to cut in line just because you could get away with it. But Jerry was tired and besides he didn't really fancy making another enemy among the Blythes. Jem had been helpful tonight, and John as well, and this coffee was just what he needed.

It seemed that Jem Blythe abhorred a silence, which is how Jerry found out that he was a medical student and that he worked two shifts a week for the Redmond ambulance service and that he spent the last year doing something Jerry did not quite catch in Spain or possibly Italy.

"Don't tell Mrs. Mac," Jem said in a stage whisper. "But I really miss zeppole."

She almost had the chance to hear for herself, popping up beside them with a pair of grease-stained paper bags and the aluminum shakers from the counter.

"Awesome! Thanks, Mrs. Mac. Can we have two more to go as well? And a large coffee. How does Faith like hers, Jerry?"

Jerry stammered something about cream and sugar, nearly fumbling the warm paper bag Mrs. Mac dropped into his hands. Jem already had his open and was applying one of the shakers with vigor.

"Looks like this one is cinnamon sugar," he said, peering into his bag. "So that will be confectioner's sugar. Give it a try."

Ok, sure. Why not?

Jerry gave the shaker a tentative flick over the neck of his open bag, releasing a puff of white powder.

"Really go to town," Jem advised him. "And then . . ." He rolled the top of his bag shut, leaving plenty of empty space, and began to shake it. "Not too hard, mind you. Don't want the bottom to give out."

Jerry trusted that this was a lesson learned from hard experience and did as he was told, sending a generous snowfall of sugar into his bag and giving it several convincing shakes. When he peered in, four perfectly powdered donuts beckoned him to taste.

"Here, try a cinnamon," Jem said through a mouthful.

He did. It was even better than the coffee.

When Jerry and Jem had eaten their way through half a dozen donuts and Mrs. Mac had come by to refill their cups and bring their takeaway bags, they slipped into a companionable silence. Jerry had been running on adrenaline since the moment he'd read John's message, but the coffee hadn't quite kicked in yet and he was coming down off the high. Just another couple of hours and then they'd call Father and Rosemary and hand things off to them. Even after all these years, he still needed to remind himself that it was alright to do that.

"Can I ask you a question?" he asked Jem, who was impossibly bright-eyed and alert and looked as if nothing would please him more. "About pneumonia?"

"Sure. Though I'm not a doctor yet."

"I know. Just . . . I know sometimes when someone's had pneumonia pretty badly, they can have scarring. On their lungs. Does that . . . does it make them more susceptible to getting it again?"

"I suppose it could," Jem said judiciously. "If the scarring's bad enough, you want to watch out for pulmonary fibrosis. But you don't have to worry about that — those antibiotics will have Carl fixed up in a flash. No reason he should have any permanent damage."

Jerry watched his coffee swirl as he toyed with the cup. "No," he said. "Not this time. It's just . . . last time was worse."

"Last time?" Jem's copper eyebrows leapt, but he schooled them back into order at once. "He's had pneumonia before?"

"Yeah. When he was ten. He almost died."

"Really?"

"Yeah," Jerry said, not sure how much he should tell someone he'd only known for four hours. But there was something about Jem Blythe than made him feel like he could tell him anything, and besides, Jerry had to know. "It's a long story. But the upshot is that I did something really stupid and Carl caught double pneumonia and was hospitalized for weeks. There was one night when . . . well, it didn't look good for a while. And I was just wondering whether that might mean it would be easier for him to get sick now."

Jerry left out the part about praying like he had never prayed before or since, spending all night on the floor of the hospital corridor promising God that he would never, ever let anything happen to any of them ever again if only He wouldn't take Carl, too.

"It's probably something he should mention to the doctor," Jem said. "It might not have anything to do with this time, but they'll take a full health history. Maybe when your parents come down, they can help, in case there's any family history of lung disease or cancer or anything."

"Right."

Jerry could feel Jem giving him a good hard look, but couldn't lift his eyes from his coffee.

"Want to go back up?" Jem asked. "Bring them some donuts?"

"Yeah," Jerry nodded. "Let's go back."

* * *

Jem was glad to find Jerry a bit chattier on the walk back up to the hospital. The coffee appeared to have done him some good, and there was a flash to the dark eyes despite his obvious weariness. The October night was chilly, with a brisk breeze off the harbor, but Jem didn't hurry. He shortened his stride to match Jerry's as Jerry told him a bit about Glen St. Mary and about Una and their half-brother Bruce and their childhood before Mr. Meredith had married Rosemary West.

"Carl was only five when our mother died," Jerry explained. "He was perfectly healthy as a little kid, but things got pretty bad. Our father was awfully depressed for a long time and Aunt Martha came to take care of us. But she wasn't in very good health herself and we mostly brought ourselves up."

"And Carl got sick?" Jem asked, transferring the hot to-go cup from one hand to the other.

"He was always getting sick," Jerry muttered. "Aunt Martha didn't believe in doctors. She flatly refused to see one herself and she never noticed when we needed one. And Father . . . he loves us, but . . . he can be a little . . . absent-minded. Carl used to get these fevers and sore throats all the time. He'd just crawl back into bed and stay there till he got better, which he usually did."

Jem tried not to show any surprise. He wouldn't have thought a minister's family would suffer the sort of neglect that might actually damage a young child's health, but perhaps nobody else did either. After all, _everybody's business is nobody's business_.*** Jem had seen enough of the world to show him how true that was, though he hadn't thought to look for it closer to home.

"Were the rest of you sick as well?"

"Faith and I got along alright. Una's never been strong, though. She was always tiny, and she used to faint sometimes when she was hungry. Though that was my fault, too."

What? How could anything be Jerry's fault, when he was just a kid himself? Jem's phone buzzed in his pocket, but he ignored it.

"You didn't get enough to eat?"

Jerry shrugged. "It's not like Aunt Martha didn't feed us. But the only thing she made was Kraft Dinner. Over and over, every day for _years_. Faith started calling it Ditto."

Jem acknowledged the joke with a chuckle, but only a very small one. As a child, he would have considered it the epitome of paradise to exchange broccoli and kimchi for a steady diet of Kraft Dinner, but as an adult, it made his heart ache for those children. Lucky they didn't get scurvy.

"Things got a lot better when Father married Rosemary," Jerry said as the automatic doors of the emergency room slid open, drawing them back into the antiseptic glare of the hospital lights. "It's just hard to see Carl sick again."

That was understandable. But Carl had responded well to the IV and was getting elephantine doses of antibiotics, so Jem was not particularly worried. If he felt slightly nervous walking back into the emergency department, it didn't have much to do with either Carl or Jerry.

It's not like he hadn't seen Faith Meredith before. She'd been a freshman when he was a senior and he'd gone to enough women's basketball games to develop an admiration for her style. But he'd never met her in person, and besides, he had been dating Nicole back then. Rafi never tired of reminding Jem in exasperated tones that there were plenty of women in the world and that he was an idiot for only ever noticing one at a time.

At the moment, the one woman Jem was noticing was slumped in a chair in mud-spattered pajamas, holding her brother's hand as he slept. Jem chided himself to be cool; this was a medical emergency, not a social occasion, and he'd just learned a lot more about Faith's life than she might want him to know. Still, his heart leapt when she looked up at their approach, golden-brown eyes blinking away fatigue and ready to meet whatever was coming next. Jem handed over the coffee with a smile.

"Thanks," she said, disentangling her fingers from Carl's. He stirred, but did not wake.

"Any word from the doctor?" Jerry asked softly.

"No. The nurse said they're going to admit him, though. Just need to get the paperwork done. She said . . ." Faith darted a glance at Jem and stopped. Who knew what the nurse had said, but if Faith felt she couldn't speak freely in front of him, there was nothing to do but remove himself.

"I've got to go check my messages," Jem said, pulling his phone from his pocket. "Back in a few."

He did actually have several messages. One from Joy, checking to make sure that everything was alright, and another from Tori saying they'd returned the ambulance to base in one piece. That was good; you never could be too sure when Zach was behind the wheel. Walter had sent a photo of some tiny roadside blossoms that reminded Jem of arbutus, which is exactly what he said in his admiring reply. The fourth message was from Rafi.

_Ha sido un mal día. Los permisos estan jodidos y no podemos zarpar._

Shit. The _Abrazo_ didn't do anyone any good sitting in port. But there had been other snafus and they had all blown over sooner or later.

_¿Puedo ayudarte en algo?_

_No. Solamente estoy de mal humor._

If Jem were back with the crew, he would have taken Rafi for a drink and learned several new insults to abuse the Italian authorities. At this distance, all he could offer was sympathy.

Ten minutes later, Jem was still tapping out brief, consoling replies to Rafi's ranting when Jerry poked his head out into the waiting room.

"Jem? Could you come in for a sec? The doctor's back."

Jem hopped up immediately and followed Jerry to the little huddle beside Carl's bed. He didn't recognize the doctor, but introduced himself and silently recited the woman's name three times to cement it in his memory.

"Carl's doing fine," Dr. Krishnamurti assured them. "His vitals are already much better than they were a few hours ago. But we'd like to admit him to pediatrics for a day or two to make sure he's on the mend."

"Pediatrics?" Jerry wrinkled his nose.

"Hospital policy requires that we treat all patients age 18 and under on the pediatric ward whenever possible."

"But he'll be 19 on Monday," said Faith.

"And hopefully we'll have him home and resting comfortably before then," said Dr. Krishnamurti. "Nobody likes to spend a birthday in the hospital. Or a holiday either."

The wheels of Jem's brain whirred. Thanksgiving was Monday. If today was Friday and Carl would be in hospital another night or two and the Merediths had to drive down from PEI . . .

"Do you have any questions?" Dr. Krishnamurti asked.

"Can we stay with Carl till our father comes?"

"Of course. And your friend here . . . ?"

Jerry looked like he would have asked Jem to stay, but Faith didn't look so sure and this wasn't the time to push.

"I've got to get back up to campus," Jem said, taking a step backward. "Give Carl my best wishes when he wakes up."

"Wait," Jerry said. "Let me give you my number."

Jem obliged, handing over his phone so that Jerry could enter a new contact. Then, Jem touched his forehead in salute, shook hands with Dr. Krishnamurti, and grinned at Faith. She was still looking at him like she was puzzling over something, but Jem did not take offense.

Before he passed through the automatic doors, he was already texting his plan into motion.

* * *

Notes:

*"Carl rallied and passed the crisis in safety. The news was phoned about the waiting Glen and people found out how much they really loved their minister and his children . . . Carl got better rapidly, for the congregation took enough nourishing things to the manse to furnish forth a hospital." _Rainbow Valley_, chapter 31, "Carl Does Penance"

**_Rainbow Valley_, chapter 31, "Carl Does Penance"

***_Rainbow Valley_, chapter 8, "Miss Cornelia Intervenes"


	15. The More the Merrier

**The More the Merrier**

* * *

" . . . and then _I_ said that if she didn't want to work Sundays then she should stop calling in sick when she's only hung over and besides there's _no way_ I'm swapping with her this weekend. I told her plain: Miller's coming home from Alberta tomorrow and I'll be spending Sunday helping Cornelia and Mr. Elliott prep for Thanksgiving, so I won't be swapping any shifts and that's that. And then _she_ said . . ."

Wee Elliott looked up from his high chair at the sound of his name, but his mother did not pause in her abuse of Krystle Reese. Una wiped a drip of porridge from Elliott's milky chin and nodded along, setting out juice cups and tiny spoons. The other daycare families would be along soon, but for now, it was just Mary Vance, sipping a mug of coffee and keeping Una informed of all the Glen doings. Nobody could ever break up or get fired or arrested without Mary knowing all about it, and Mary could never rest easy until she had told at least four people everything there was to tell. Sometimes, Una got one dose of news in the morning when Mary dropped Elliott off, and another in the evening, comprising the various tidbits Mary had gleaned from the occupants of the Four Winds Retirement Home and their visitors over the course of the day.

"I'm awfully glad that Miller got the holiday off," Una said when Mary paused for a sip. "It seems like a long time since he's been home."

"Four weeks. It's supposed to be two on and two off, but he covered for a friend whose mother was dying in Vancouver, so I can't complain about him helping out. It'll be real nice to have him home for a while, though."

Una knew how much Mary missed Miller when he was away working the oil sands. She always smiled to the limit and acted as if nothing was happening when she sent him off, but it was a strain all the same. Worth it, though, they both insisted. Even with the recent dip in prices, the oil companies still paid far better than any job Miller could have gotten on the Island. They were saving for a wedding and maybe, someday, a house of their own.

Una was just about to ask Mary whether Miller's Aunt Kitty would be at Miss Cornelia's for Thanksgiving when the kitchen phone rang. Una left Elliott to his breakfast and answered, expecting a parishioner or one of the daycare parents.

"Hi, Una. It's Faith."

Una's eye flicked to the stove clock, which read 7:08. Not a casual call, then.

"Are you alright?" Una asked.

"I'm fine," Faith said. She sounded tired. "Listen, Una, everything is under control. But Carl's sick. He's in the hospital."

"Carl's in the hospital?" Una's voice sounded small even to her own ears. She met Mary's wide, white eyes and tried to focus on what Faith was saying.

". . . last night. He'll be alright. Is Father there? Or Rosemary?"

"Rosemary's helping Bruce get ready for school. Just a minute."

Una scurried up the stairs, receiver in hand. Rosemary was helping Bruce with his mis-buttoned shirt, but a glance at Una redirected her attention in an instant. She took the phone and stepped out into the hall, though not quite far enough to keep Una and Bruce from overhearing.

"Is he alright? . . . What does the doctor say? . . . Pneumonia? . . . Is he awake? . . . Of course we will . . . Don't worry about any of that, Faith. We'll manage. . . . Let me wake your father and I'll call you back in a few minutes, alright? . . . I love you, too."

Bruce's black brows drew together. "Is somebody sick?"

Una took up his buttons and adopted a light tone. "Carl is sick. But Faith and Jerry are taking very good care of him, so there is nothing at all to worry about."

Bruce's expression remained pinched, but he allowed Una to comb his hair and clean the lenses of his glasses, just as she always had when he was too little to do it himself. Rosemary was on the phone again when Una led Bruce downstairs and fixed him a bowl of porridge studded with raisins and an extra spoonful of brown sugar. Bruce remained undeceived.

He _looked levelly at _Una_ out of his blackly blue eyes _and asked, "Is Carl going to die?"*

Mary sucked in her breath, but Una slid into the seat beside Bruce and took his pudgy hand in hers. "No, lovey. He's sick, but the doctors are taking good care of him. He won't die."

"He _might_, though."

"Whyever do you think so?"

Bruce's lip trembled, but he met Una's eye bravely, as if determined to confront the worst. "Maggie Russell had pewmonia and she died. We had chocolate cake at her funeral."

Mary snorted into her coffee. "Maggie Russell was ninety-seven years old and had to die of something eventually. She'd been planning that funeral since before you were born."

Bruce was not much consoled by this cheerful correction and was only narrowly holding back tears when Father made his appearance. Father was red-eyed and rumpled, and accepted the cup of coffee Mary handed to him without even noticing that she was there.

"Una," he said after the first sip, "I'm off to Kingsport at once. Do you want to come with me?"

Of course she did, but her "yes" was covered over by Bruce's beseeching cry. "Me, too! Please, I want to come, too!"

"You have school, Bruce," Rosemary said, hurrying into the kitchen with a comb in her hand.

"But Mother! Carl's in the_ hospital!_ What if he _dies!_"

"Carl is in no danger of dying, dearest," Rosemary said gently. She laid her hand lightly on Father's back, perhaps having noticed, as Una had, that he had gone a paler shade of ghastly. He looked shaky enough that Una wasn't sure he'd be able to drive.

Bruce's chin wobbled in time with Una's resolve. It was true that Bruce had school, but what good would it do to send his body to sit at a desk when his mind would be elsewhere? Bruce had always felt things keenly and he adored Carl. He had saved a dollar from his allowance every week until he had enough to buy the novelty socks printed with ants that sat wrapped and ready for Carl's birthday celebration, which would have to be postponed now. And just suppose . . . but no, Una would not suppose anything dreadful. Bruce might howl his fears, but Una knew how to save hers up and trust God in the meantime.

Father and Rosemary were passing a silent conversation back and forth via significant looks. When Rosemary shrugged a shoulder, even Bruce knew he had won.

"I'll just go upstairs and pack you an overnight bag," Rosemary said. "Una, will you get some snacks and books for the ride?"

A new wrinkle had occurred to Bruce. "We'll stay overnight?"

"It's a long drive to Kingsport," said Mary. "I'd be surprised if you don't stay two nights at least."

Una had not thought quite that far ahead either. It was true, though. They'd couldn't possibly get back before tomorrow night at the earliest. And what if Carl had to stay in the hospital for a few days? He wouldn't be well enough to travel even if he was discharged. Would they just leave him there alone? No, never.

"Perhaps I ought to call Deacon Hazard and ask him if he can preach on Sunday," Father said to Rosemary.

"Yes, do. Then you'll be flexible if you need to stay longer."

Bruce looked from one parent to the other, his eyes widening as his brain whirred.

"But what about Thanksgiving?" he wailed. "Oh, Mother, you've got to come with us. We have to have everyone together at Thanksgiving!"

Rosemary's voice was sweet, even though she blinked in a way that told Una that she was nearly _at her wits' end_ with Bruce's taking everything so much to heart. "Sweetheart, I have to stay here for the daycare children. Their families count on us to look after them so that they can go to work."

"But we won't have Thanksgiving together! And you'll miss Carl's birthday! You can't miss Carl's birthday, Mother!"

"I . . ."

"I'll help, Mrs. Meredith," Mary interjected. "Me and Cornelia both. We can watch the children today. The Drews have already gone to Charlottetown for the holiday, so there are only two besides Elliott."

It was a kind offer; too kind by half. "You have to work, Mary," Una said. "Besides, there's Miller. And Thanksgiving."

"Oh, Miller won't be bothered," Mary said, already dialing her phone. "And mind you, Cornelia will put those kids to work. If they don't know how to use a potato peeler yet, she'll soon cure them of that."

"It's awfully kind of you, Mary . . ." Rosemary said.

Mary's phone was at her ear, her hand at her waist. "Laws, where would I be without you Merediths? I can pitch in and not feel the pinch."

Rosemary might have objected again, but Father spoke first. "Thank you, Mary. How lucky we are to have you as a friend."

Mary went pink around the ears, her complexion doing what words could not to convey the awe in which she had held Father ever since she was a runaway foster child cowering in the manse garrett. Then the call connected and Mary jammed a finger in the other ear, striding out toward the veranda.

"Hello! Krystle! Wake up. Listen, if you can take my shift that starts in half an hour, I'll take your Sunday . . ."

* * *

When Carl woke, the golden light of a clear fall morning limned the buildings of downtown Kingsport in tones of honey and apricot. Slanting beams shone through the half-drawn curtains, illuminating the Rescue Ducks adorning the wall. And the ceiling. And the bedspread.

Carl blinked several times, but the Rescue Ducks remained, grinning their toothy grins.

_What . . . ?_

At first, Carl thought the room was empty. Then Jerry snuffled in his sleep, head rolling against the back of the armchair in the corner. He had stayed all night, just as he said he would. Carl was torn between gratitude and remorse at having caused so much trouble.

Breath rattled in Carl's chest, building toward an unavoidable coughing fit. Desperate not to wake Jerry, Carl sat forward, clutching the pillow and coughing into the unlikely plumage of yet another duck.

It didn't work. At the first bark, Jerry sat bolt upright, knuckling his eyes.

Carl rode the coughs to their conclusion, then sat back, gasping, "Where — am — I?"

"The hospital," Jerry said earnestly, scooting his chair closer and speaking in an over-gentle tone.

"The _duck_ hospital?"

Jerry's mouth twisted into a pained expression. "It's the pediatric ward," he admitted.

"Pediatric?"

"They said it's hospital policy that all patients 18 and under get admitted to pediatrics. Sorry."

Before Carl could ask any more clarifying questions, Faith appeared in the doorway.

"Well look who's awake!" She tucked her phone away and flopped onto the end of Carl's bed, tweaking a toe through the blankets. "How are you feeling?"

"Alright, I guess."

"Your vitals are better," Faith said, pointing to the monitor blipping away next to the bed. "They're slugging you with high-dose antibiotics. You should be in good shape by the time Father arrives."

Carl groaned. "You called Father?"

"Of course we called Father," Jerry said. "They're already on their way."

"They?"

"Una said Bruce refused to be left behind, so they're all coming. They'll be here in a couple of hours."

Carl sank back onto the hospital bed, writhing internally. Everyone should be at work or school or practice, not converging on the Kingsport Hospital pediatric ward. Neither Father nor Una nor any of the rest of them could provide intravenous fluids nor antibiotics nor sleep, and that was all Carl needed at the moment. Disrupting everyone's lives wouldn't cure the pneumonia any faster.

"You should go to class," Carl croaked.

Jerry consulted his watch, then passed a silent question back and forth with Faith. Carl felt a flare of irritation. They didn't need to stay any longer and they didn't need to pretend like they were the only two people whose opinions mattered. This was all humiliating enough already.

"Go," Carl said with somewhat more force. "The ducks and I would like some privacy."

Faith chewed her lip. "You sure you'll be alright on your own?"

"I'm going back to sleep. No sense in you sitting here watching me nap."

It took another few rounds of convincing, but in the end, Jerry and Faith gave in. They demonstrated their reluctance to leave in a flurry of last-minute adjustments, fluffing the pillows, fetching a fresh cup of water, positioning the call button so Carl could summon a nurse with the flick of a finger. Jerry handed Carl a grease-stained bag containing two and a half donuts and apologized that none of them were crullers. Carl thanked him and then settled ostentatiously into the pillows, making a good show of preparing for sleep.

"Here's the TV remote," Jerry said, setting it on the bedside table. "Do you want me to go back up to campus and bring you anything? Books? Your computer?"

"No. I'm just going back to sleep."

"I'll come back after practice," Faith promised, kissing Carl on the top of the head.

"Bye. Thank you, really. I'll be fine."

Carl strained to hear their footsteps as they echoed away down the hall. Somewhere, the elevator bell chimed and Carl was alone. Soft sounds wafted in through the open door: the shuffle of feet in the corridor, an IV stand rattling as someone wheeled it around, a toddler crying somewhere. Closer, the beeping of the monitor translated the miraculous workings of Carl's body into lines and numbers that must mean something to somebody.

It was no use trying to go back to sleep after only being awake for ten minutes. It was also illogical to wish for company when Faith and Jerry had only just left, but Carl felt lonely nonetheless. In the bad old days, there had always been a lizard or a rat around somewhere, but Carl doubted there was so much as a spider in the clean-scrubbed room.

There was, however, a television. Carl found the remote where Jerry had left it and clicked, trying to remember the last time they had watched live TV. Unfortunately, the power button seemed to be the only part of the remote that worked. Either that or the pediatric ward only had one approved channel.

_Rescue Ducks! Rescue Ducks! By land or sea or aaaair! The Rescue Ducks are therrrre!_

What was that one supposed to be anyway? The leader was clearly meant to be a mallard, though his head was much too big, but was that Picasso-looking thing supposed to be a wood duck? And why on earth was the female duck pink?

Carl dug a donut out of the bag and had just taken one sweet, powdery bite when someone knocked softly at the open door. Expecting a nurse, Carl looked up and found John looming in the frame. Tall and silent, with his shoulders a little hunched, he seemed unsure whether he'd be invited in.

Carl choke-coughed, spraying a puff of confectioners' sugar onto the blanket. The remote refused to cooperate, merely muting the ducks rather than banishing them. "Please come in" came out as a series of barking coughs that left John looking like he would rather flee. Carl willed every muscle and organ to please, please just cooperate for like five minutes and not scare him off.

"I . . . um . . . I brought your phone," John said, drawing it out of his jacket pocket. The leather jacket, Carl noted with a longing that spelled doom for any vegan aspirations.

"Thanks," Carl said, wiping sugary fingers on the blanket before taking the phone. It was a surprisingly thoughtful gesture, especially coming from John. Carl took the phone without letting their fingers touch, though mere proximity was quite a thrill all on its own.

The phone came to life under Carl's thumb, opening to a long thread of messages from Jerry:

_Everything ok? We missed you at Prayers._

_Just checking in to make sure you're feeling alright. How's your cold?_

_Do you want to get dinner later?_

_I don't mean to nag, but I'm getting worried about you. Just answer this message, ok?_

_Carl, you haven't answered any of my messages all day. If you don't respond to this, I'm coming over to find you._

Then a message that said it was from Carl, even though it wasn't:

_This is Carl's roommate. He's pretty sick. I called the _🚑

John had called the ambulance? Carl tried to remember what had happened last night, but it was like trying to pin down a wave. There were snatches of feeling — a shiver, the dampness of the comforter, bright lights turning on abruptly — but focusing on any particular detail sent it skittering away.

"You called the ambulance?"

"Mm hm."

"And you texted Jerry? From my phone?"

John twitched a still-hunched shoulder. "He sounded worried. I'm sorry. I didn't go snooping or anything."

A wash of cold slithered down Carl's spine. Was that true? Even if John hadn't gone poking around, had he inadvertently seen any of the other texts on here?

_Hey bb hope you're feeling better _💋 _I checked the hockey schedule and it looks like loverboy has scrimmages on Thursdays — let's go watch next week Y/Y?_

Carl stifled a little moan. Please don't let John have seen that one.

"I really didn't," John said, seeming to take Carl's silence for condemnation. "It's none of my business."

Carl had never seen much of anything on John's face but cool indifference, but now the brown brows were drawn together in apparent anxiety. He seemed to care whether Carl believed him.

"Thanks," Carl said. "And thanks for calling the ambulance."

"Yeah, well, you looked pretty bad."

"Just happy to be noticed at all, really."

The little furrow in John's forehead smoothed, and if it wasn't really a smile, it wasn't a frown anymore either.

Conversation-wise, it was John's turn and Carl expected that he would excuse himself and disappear. Thus, it was something of a surprise when John looked around the room and sent back a slow volley.

"So . . . they put you in pediatrics, eh?"

"Unfortunately," Carl said through a cough. "I missed the cutoff by three days."

"It's your birthday?"

"On Monday.

"Oh. Will you be out by then?"

"I sure hope so. Not sure I'll be able to sleep with all the creepy ducks watching."

Something sparked in John's eye. "My sister writes for that show."

"Oh," Carl gulped. "Sorry. I didn't mean to offend."

"Nah. She hates them more than anyone."

"Really?" Carl looked to the TV, where one of the Rescue Ducks was piloting a single-seater biplane. "My stepmother runs a daycare. The kids are big fans."

John watched the little airplane dip and soar, his nose wrinkling. "Makes no sense," he muttered to himself.

"I saw one episode where they got stranded in a lifeboat," Carl offered. "Didn't fly. Didn't swim. Just sat there, waiting to be rescued."

Was John actually smiling? Must be a trick of the light. But the something that had kindled there didn't seem to be anger or annoyance. His whole faced changed, relaxing and opening as he chuckled. "Don't get Joy started. She spent all of Sunday dinner ranting about a new episode where the ducks do CPR on a starfish."

Carl barked out a half-laugh, half-cough. "Sea stars don't even have circulatory systems! Or lungs!"

Carl's own lungs asserted their existence in a storm of hacking that went on long enough to make John's brow contract again. When Carl looked up from the depths of the duck-covered pillow, the deep brown eyes showed something like concern.

"You ok?"

"Fine," Carl wheezed. "Just . . . ugh . . . stupid ducks!"

"Joy calls them _pestilential_."

"Not great for a hospital, then."

"I think all the rooms are different. I was in here a few years ago and my room was Winnie the Pooh."

"Oh yeah? What were you in for?"

If there had been hints of expression in John's face a moment ago, they were gone now. The old aloof neutrality slid into place like a train door sealing shut.

"Hockey injury," he said with a finality that did not invite further inquiry.

Carl's brain scrambled, trying to keep the rally going. "Oh. Well, I'm glad you recovered."

"Yep."

"Are you doing anything fun for Thanksgiving?"

"No."

After that, Carl had difficulty extracting more than a few syllables. John had shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket and darted a glance toward the door more than once. Carl figured the only kind thing to do was to release him.

"Thanks again for the ambulance. And the phone."

"No problem."

"I guess I'll see you Tuesday? I should be out by then."

"Yeah."

"Have a good Thanksgiving!"

"Have a good birthday."

"Thanks."

When John had gone, Carl fell back into the pillows and lay very still. Had that just happened? John had come to the hospital. He had brought Carl's phone. He had actually had a conversation with Carl, or at least half of one. It was difficult to believe, but it was also impossible to stop smiling.

*/*/*

[selfie of Carl in bed, IV prominent]  
_So, funny story._

_OMG! CARL! ARE YOU OK?_

_I've got pneumonia, but I'm on antibiotics and I'll be fine._

_yr in the hospital?_

_Yes. I was sort of unconscious and John called the ambulance for me._

_SHUT UP  
__you were unconscious?  
__John RESCUED you?_

_I don't think he rode in on his noble steed or anything. But he called the ambulance. _

_he did not_

_He came and visited me in the hospital._

_SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP  
__did he like actually talk to you?_

_He brought me my phone. I guess he had it because he used it to text Jerry._

_wait how  
__like how did he text from your phone  
__how did he unlock it_

_I didn't ask. I was too freaked out that he might have seen some of your texts about him!_

_hey John! If you're reading this please know that you have a FANTASTIC ass like really top shelf. Carl says so at least twice a day. Put in a good word for me with Ken, ok? thx_

_Caela!  
__I do not!_

_what he's not looking over yr shoulder is he?_

_You're going to scare him!_

_I need to know ALL the details and I would call you but we are at breakfast with my grandma rn_

_Why didn't you say so? Put your phone away! Call me later. I'm not going anywhere._

_ok bb I will _😘

* * *

The surgery had lasted longer than expected. It was always difficult to predict these things, even with the new imaging techniques and years of experience. You just never knew exactly how blood vessels and tissue would cooperate until you had the real deal in front of you. An hour might pass in a single breath when Gilbert was immersed in his work but he never noticed his fatigue until afterward. It was always a surprise to walk out of an operating room to find that it was the middle of the afternoon. He needed food and a few laps in the pool at the gym, but that could wait until after he delivered a message.

This morning, Gilbert and Anne had woken to find a series of texts from Jem that began with, "Listen, about Thanksgiving . . ." and ended with a plea to invite whichever Merediths might find themselves stuck in Kingsport for the weekend. Anne had started drawing up a new grocery list before Gilbert left for work.

Gilbert stepped out of the elevator on the pediatric ward, adjusting the PFLAG pin on his pristine white lab coat. Even if he had been up to his wrists in gore half an hour ago, he always took care to appear tidy and relaxed in the hospital halls, putting people at ease with a ready smile.

Gilbert greeted Heather and Bonnie at the nurses' station, complimenting the latter on her new haircut. It was very rarely good to see the pediatric nurses because it usually meant that Gilbert had been called to this floor to consult on a case that might be awful. But there were no brain tumors or seizures today, only introductions and dinner invitations.

Bonnie pointed the way to Carl Meredith's room, which already held several visitors including at least one child, whose voice carried into the hall.

"Does it hurt to have a needle in your hand? Mum says they have to give you your medicine that way, but why can't they just give you a pill? Can you get out of bed with all those wires on you? What if you have to use the washroom?"

Gilbert rapped his knuckles against the Rescue Ducks decal on the door, causing every head in the room to whip around. Besides the little boy, there was a wispy black-haired girl sitting by the bed and a pair of adults hovering nearby.

"Hello!" Gilbert said. "May I come in, Carl?"

The poor kid's eyes were purple with fatigue and Gilbert resolved to prescribe a good long nap. Carl had enough energy to offer a wan smile, though.

"Hi, Dr. Blythe."

Gilbert stepped into the room and offered a hand to the lovely woman who introduced herself as Rosemary. She seemed vaguely familiar. Had they met once, in the old days? No, she must be at least a decade younger than himself, and it was rare for Gilbert not to be able to put a name to a face.

He turned to the slim, black-haired man who looked a great deal like his eldest son. Rosemary introduced him as John, which should be easy enough to remember.

"Blythe?" John Meredith asked, his dark eyes nearly black in the ivory pallor of his face. "You're not the pulmonary specialist, then?"

"No. Just the father of various roommates," Gilbert said, gripping the slender hand. There was something elegant about John Meredith, and gentle as well. Or maybe he was just overwhelmed. Gilbert had enough little pieces of his heart off living their own lives to know that there were few things worse than a too-early-in-the-morning phone call.

"Of course," Rosemary said. "We've heard so much about your family."

"All exaggerations, I'm sure."

"Faith tells us that your girls are very kind," John said earnestly. "And Carl says . . ."

A tremendous burst of coughing from the bed interrupted him, riveting every eye on Carl.

"Sorry!" he gasped. "You know. Pneumonia."

"Yes, about that," Gilbert said. "Anne and I heard that Carl was ill and might need to stay in the hospital a few nights. I don't know whether you're all planning to stay as well, but if you are, we'd be delighted to have you to Ingleside for Thanksgiving."

The Merediths exchanged a look of surprise.

"That's very kind of you," John said. "But we couldn't impose on you like that."

"Nonsense! The kids are all friends already."

Coming from someone else, it might be politeness, but the truth was that Gilbert loved holidays. He missed the days of dressing up as Santa and setting out jelly bean trails that led to Easter baskets. What's more, Anne loved holidays as well, and Gilbert never failed to feel a swell of heart-busting joy whenever he saw her flitting about the house, trailing seasonal decorations in her wake. The Ingleside Christmas party was one of the highlights of their year, though Thanksgiving and Halloween were each given their proper due as well.

"They won't keep me in here till Monday, will they?" Carl asked miserably.

"Probably not," Gilbert said. "But I doubt your doctor will want you traveling as far as the Island even if you're well enough to be discharged."

"But what about Carl's birthday?" the little boy asked, blinking up at Gilbert with a startling earnestness.

Gilbert crouched down to speak to the child on his level. "Is it Carl's birthday soon?"

"Yes. We were going to have a party with our Thanksgiving."

Gilbert put on a show of giving this due consideration. "Hmmm. Do you think we could have the party at my house instead?"

"I don't know if you have any cake there."

"Bruce!" Rosemary said, but Gilbert was laughing.

"I think we can arrange for a cake. Did you bring any presents with you?"

"Yes."

"Then I think we have the makings of an excellent party."

Bruce seemed to be coming around on the matter. "And we can all come? Una and Faith and Jerry, too?"

"The more the merrier."

John Meredith and Rosemary seemed befuddled, but not opposed. Gilbert had sweet-talked enough recalcitrant patients and budget-office managers to know that he nearly had them.

"You know," he said, "we Islanders need to stick together. You'd be doing us a kindness by letting us feed you. It's the very least we can do."

Gilbert held his breath. Were the Merediths proud? Of course they were, if they were like any other Islanders he'd ever met. But the call to honor a neighbor's hospitality ran deep, and what were they if not neighbors?

"Is that alright with you, Carl?" John Meredith asked, sounding as if he wasn't sure which answer he was hoping for.

"I think so," Carl said.

"In that case," John said to Gilbert, "we accept."

"Excellent!" Gilbert beamed, clapping his hands together. "I'll tell Anne we're expecting seven more for Thanksgiving!"

* * *

Notes:

*_Rilla of Ingleside_, chapter 25: "Shirley Goes"


	16. Nuestra Casa

**Nuestra Casa**

* * *

John woke extra early on Thanksgiving morning. Even with two ovens going full tilt all day yesterday, he hadn't gotten a chance to slip the cake in among the pies and sweet potatoes and cornbread. Today, the kitchen would be full of roasting turkeys and chattering helpers and John wanted the cake baked and safely decorated before the swarm descended. There was no such thing a birthday pie.

Thus, it was still pitch black when he coaxed three rounds of lemon chiffon onto the cooling racks and got to work on the buttercream.

"Is this the birthday cake?" Susan asked when she came in to find John mixing the frosting.

"예," John said, scraping the side of the bowl.

Susan sniffed the air. "Lemon?"

"예."

"Do you want help?"

"It's alright. No trouble."

It would have been less trouble if he had known what sort of cake Carl liked. Almost everyone liked chocolate, but John thought that perhaps chocolate might be too rich for someone recovering from a serious illness. Besides, the rest of them would be full from Thanksgiving dinner and wouldn't want something heavy. He had considered making the white chocolate and matcha recipe he'd been wanting to try, but he couldn't guarantee a satisfactory outcome. In the end, John had decided to stick with tried-and-true lemon chiffon. Light. Subtle. He had no idea whether Carl would like it.

John had all the family favorites memorized — gingerbread for Jem and Queen Pudding for Walter and anything but silver-and-gold cake for Rilla — but how were you supposed to know what someone would like when you didn't know a single thing about them other than that they were gay and didn't know how to delete a profile? John tried to think of anything specific he knew about Carl's taste. What was on his side of the room?

A mess, quite frankly.

But colors, too. Yes, Carl's side of the closet had gotten downright exuberant lately. Patterns and prints and plenty of colors. That Madras shirt with the pink and another with a pattern of tiny dragonflies. And then there was that phone. Nobody bought a rose gold phone by accident.

John frowned at the white frosting. He liked a white-on-white cake, all clean and elegant. But it wasn't right for Carl.

Rummaging in the crisper, John found a packet of the raspberries Mum liked to put in her yogurt. They were a day or two past peak, but that was alright. John found the mini strainer and juiced them directly into the buttercream. It was a subtle pink, but it was better.

* * *

Anne arrived in the kitchen in the rosy glow of dawn to find Susan fussing over a saucepan of giblets and John piping tiny shells around the base of _a toothsome concoction iced with pink icing_.*

"Good morning," she smiled, tying on an apron. "That cake looks wonderful, sweetheart."

John ducked his head and went on piping. He was doing a lovely job, Anne noted, but then, he always did. It was nice to know that at least one of her children had a little patience.

Anne went to the window to see if Jem's car was in the drive, but found only Doc, twitching his tail as he watched the cardinals at the feeder.

"Mrs. Dr. dear, do you have the final count for dinner?" Susan asked.

Anne ticked off the guests on her fingers. "There's the nine of us, plus Mr. Meredith and Mrs. Meredith and Jerry, Faith, Una, and Bruce. I spoke with Mr. Meredith last night and he thinks that Carl should stay in bed today, instead of trying to sit up at the table. Then there's Ken and Delilah, which makes seventeen."

It was wonderful to be expecting so many. Anne loved a festal occasion and had been caught in a whirlwind of preparation ever since waking to Jem's message on Friday morning: "_Listen, about Thanksgiving . . ._" Ingleside had been vacuumed and dusted until even Susan agreed that it was ready to be honored by a visit from a Presbyterian minister. Anne had aired the spare room bed for Carl and braved the Thanksgiving weekend crowds at the grocery store for extra supplies. She and Rilla had put every last extender into the dining room table and bedecked every sill with late-blooming dahlias and bittersweet vines. Everyone had been in and out of the kitchen, taking shifts peeling potatoes and scouring pots while the pantry and refrigerator filled with delectable things.

Now the kitchen was filling with golden light and a tricksy October breeze swirled in from the harbor to wake the Ingleside trees. The golden lombardy poplar at the edge of the driveway swayed like a dancer in streaming robes, and Anne longed to go skipping among the gusting leaves with her hair loose and her shoes forgotten. Oh, she was as glad as ever to _live in a world where there were Octobers!**_

". . . and Magog to the left!"

The spell was broken by Di's happy chatter and Delilah's answering laugh. They bounced into the kitchen with greetings for Susan and John, and Anne reflected that she really ought not to have put so much stock in Nan's sourness over Delilah. Perhaps she was a little careless, but she seemed like a sweet girl. She'd spent yesterday declaring everything in sight _wonderful_. The golden poplars in the yard were _wonderful_ and the little seating nook near the mudroom was _wonderful_ and the double oven was _wonderful_. Delilah may have _worked the poor word to death_, but Anne could not find it in her heart to dislike anyone who expressed such fervent admiration for Ingleside.***

"The china dogs are _wonderful_!" Delilah declared, blue eyes shining. "You have such a lovely home, Mrs. Blythe."

Anne smiled. "Thank you, Delilah. We're so glad to have you here."

* * *

Di was delighted. She had been so eager to give Delilah the best Thanksgiving ever, and things were going exactly according to plan. Even Nan had cooperated, gamely decamping for Walter's vacant room last night after they'd all stayed up late marathoning Harry Potter movies just like old times.

"It's been so long since I've had a _real_ Thanksgiving," Delilah had sighed when Di invited her to Ingleside. "My stepmother used to make me do all the cooking for twenty people and all the dishes, too. And I never even got to sit at the table with the adults, even though my brother did and he's only two years older. I was all alone at the children's table with my stepmother's nieces and nephews and I had to cut all their meat for them because their parents couldn't be bothered. It will be _so nice_ to be able to enjoy a Thanksgiving dinner for once."

"You won't have to lift a finger," Di had promised fiercely.

"Oh no," Delilah said. "I'll work. _I love to do something just because I like to do it._"***

Delilah had been as good as her word. They'd spent yesterday polishing the silver and peeling apples for pies and generally making themselves useful. When Mum had asked them to set the table, Delilah had sighed with pleasure.

"_This is __the__ day of my life_," she said, running a finger over the stack of rosebud plates in the china cabinet. "_I wonder if you know what a lucky girl you are, Diana. If I had a home like you . . . but it's my lot in life. I just have to bear it._"***

Di stepped up behind Delilah and wrapped her arms around her waist. Sugar-brown curls tickled her cheek as she rested her chin over Delilah's shoulder.

"It's even better now that you're here," Di murmured in her ear. She kissed Delilah's temple, then giggled as Delilah wriggled back against her as if they were still snug under the covers, holding tight to fit in the too-small bed.

Di went to deliver a suggestive pinch, but Delilah squeaked and pulled away. Following her gaze, Di saw Nan standing in the doorway with a pile of folded napkins over her arm.

"Mum sent me in with these," Nan said a little primly. "I can just leave them here . . ."

"No," Di said. "Come in. Help us. I never can remember how the forks go."

Delilah gave a little pout and Nan gave off a faint air of one being led to the block, but Di was determined. They might not like one another very much, but Delilah and Nan meant more to her than anyone in the world, and she wanted them to love one another as well. Other girlfriends had come and gone, but this time was different. Di caught at Delilah's hand and squeezed, silently imploring her to be nice to Nan, please for her sake.

After a moment, Delilah squeezed back, then turned the beam of her smile on Nan. "I was just saying how _wonderful_ the china is. And Di says that you set the prettiest table. I'm so looking forward to seeing it!"

Yes, everything would be alright. Di was sure of it.

* * *

Nan frowned at the place cards.

_Absolutely not._

While she appreciated the Bennetian sensibilities of whoever had sat her in between the two unattached male guests, Nan would not, under any circumstances, eat her Thanksgiving dinner next to Jerry Meredith.

"What are you doing?" Di asked as she handed a stack of chargers to Delilah.

Nan had her place card in her hand and was skimming along the table assessing her options. "Just making a slight adjustment."

She did not particularly want to sit next to Delilah, either, nor displace Susan — seated at Dad's right hand — from the place of honor. In the end, she plucked Una Meredith's card from its place and dropped her own instead, between Faith and Mr. Meredith.

"I think Mum wanted Una to sit next to her father," Di said. "Dad said she's a little shy."

"That end of the table's loaded with Merediths," Nan sniffed. "She'll be fine."

Di shrugged and continued to empty the china closet. Delilah set a charger at every place and Nan followed behind with Grandmother Marilla's rosebud spray plates, each one settling into place with a musical chime. They settled into a rhythm that soothed some of Nan's prickles, the ordered beauty of the table calming her with glints of silver and the refracted rainbows of crystal. Nan gave Jem _the __odd, high Green Gables goblet that _Grandmother_ Marilla had once given him and from which he always insisted on drinking_, and double-checked to make sure that everyone had the correct array of cutlery.**** The table might not be quite up to Rosings standards, but _every article placed on it was polished or scoured to the highest possible perfection of gloss and glitter_, and Nan was satisfied.†

The crunch of gravel in the drive announced the arrival of more guests. Nan peeked through the curtains at a rambling old minivan of uncertain provenance. She was reminded of move-in day and Jerry's car — a piebald jalopy so unlike the rest of his neat appearance — and felt an unwelcome flicker of curiosity. Faith had said enough to imply that the Merediths were not well-off, but somehow Nan always thought of Jerry as a lawyer, as if he already had a job at some swank lawfirm figuring out how to let oil executives bulldoze through wildlife preserves. It was jarring to think of him as a small-town Islander like the Avonlea cousins.

Well, Nan Blythe had manners and she would use them. She patted her skirt — really, Rilla _did_ have a point about living up to one's clothes — and turned away from the window, determined not to mar Ingleside's reputation for hospitality.

* * *

Jerry did not quite press his nose to the van window as the Merediths pulled into the drive at Ingleside, but it was a near thing. He couldn't help admiring the large, handsome house, with its _big lawn and magnificent old trees_.†† Part of it had once been a stately Victorian, though it was _neither formal nor falsely adorned_. It might be about as old as the manse, but anyone could see that Ingleside had been expertly renovated and updated with modern conveniences. Jerry appreciated original architecture, but there was a lot to be said for windows that didn't let in a palpable breeze.

"It's big," Carl croaked, leaning over Jerry to see better. His hair was combed and he wore clean pajamas, but neither could compensate for his pallor. Still, Carl had walked to the van under his own power and only had one bad coughing fit on the drive over.

Jerry shrugged. "They have a big family."

"How many children are there?" Una asked.

"Seven," Faith answered. "Though only six will be there today. One of the brothers is off traveling."

Bruce hung over the middle seat, craning to see. "Do they have any pets?"

"A cat, I think," Faith said as they rolled to a stop.

Indeed, there was a gorgeous golden beast watching from the window as the Merediths disembarked. Jerry helped Carl down from the van and carried his bag for him, sticking like a barnacle all the way to the veranda steps in case Carl needed a brace. Father stationed himself on the other side, carrying the bouquet they'd brought in lieu of pies.

Carl had been discharged from the hospital with strict instructions to stay in bed for the rest of the week and a letter from Dr. Krishnamurti explaining things to Redmond. There had been some talk of sending him home with Father and Rosemary to recuperate, but Carl had protested that he could convalesce in his dorm and take care of his own medication. After all, he was nineteen today, old enough to drink at a bar or get a Nova Scotia marriage license without anyone's permission. Father had _said no word to dissuade him_.†††

Before anyone could knock at the front door, Dr. Blythe had flung it open, welcoming them all to Ingleside. Jerry followed Father and Rosemary into the wide entry, where Mrs. Blythe welcomed him with a hug. Amid the greetings, Jerry could not help but notice Nan, who was smiling as Faith introduced her to Una. In a soft pink dress, her nut brown hair held back with a circlet of bronze leaves, she reminded Jerry of Hermia and he might have stared if Jem hadn't arrived.

"Glad you made it," Jem beamed. "How are you feeling, Carl?"

Carl's brave, "Much better, thanks!" was contradicted by a series of coughs that left him clutching Jerry's sleeve.

"I can give you the full tour later," Jem said. "But for now, Mum's made up the spare room for you. Sound good?"

Carl nodded and Jerry gestured with his bag. "Lead the way."

* * *

Jem was eager to get back to the crowd. Or, not the crowd exactly, but certain members of it. When the Merediths had arrived and everyone had gone to greet them, he had taken a brief detour through the dining room to swap a couple of place cards. Joy had caught him at it, rolling her eyes at his sheepish grin.

Now he and Jerry were on their way back to the party after setting Carl up in the spare room. They had promised to send someone back with snacks, though judging by the purple smudges under Carl's eyes, Jem predicted he'd be asleep before they were halfway down the hall.

"Is that a library?" Jerry asked, slowing his pace to peer through the faux-French doors.

Jem did not particularly want to stop, but the avid look on Jerry's face would not be denied. "Yep. Joy's domain, mostly. Though you can find Mum there as well when the weather's bad."

"Would they mind if I take a look?"

"Are you kidding? I think it's mandatory. There's even a sliding ladder if you want to do the _Beauty and the Beast_ thing."

As it happened, Jerry did not show any particular interest in the ladder, but he expressed keen admiration for everything else, from the double-height windows to the bronze Artemis of the Silver Bow on the mantel. He seemed particularly taken with the shelf of leather-and-gilt volumes that Mum and Walter were forever gifting back and forth to one another. By the time Jerry had looked his fill, Jem was having to curl his toes to keep his leg from vibrating.

The sound of merry voices drew them back toward the crowded hall, where the swells and eddies of several simultaneous conversations were crowned by a brilliant descant of clear laughter. It was the sort of laughter that made everyone else want to laugh along, and it did not take Jem long to identify the source.

He had liked Faith's looks at the hospital, when she had stormed in ready to take on the world, fire in her eye and her hair looking like yesterday's seaweed. Now, relaxed and cheerful as she stood with an arm around her sister, head thrown back in merriment, she was radiant.

Jem liked girls and had found that they tended to like him back. He'd had a good time in Spain and Italy in between missions, but the stakes had been low, just casual flings that only lasted as long as the sangria. Now he was standing in his own childhood home, staring like a clod and flustered about making a good second impression.

"Thanks for inviting us," Jerry said.

"'Course," Jem replied, only half-listening. "Nuestra casa es su casa."

* * *

Gilbert was in his element. Ingleside had hosted larger parties with more distinguished guests, but there was something deeply satisfying about hosting the people who had begun to feature so prominently in the twins' stories. Add in the fact that the Merediths were from Glen St. Mary and the whole thing felt like closing a circle. In another life, they might have been old friends already. Of course, Uncle Dave had understood why Gilbert had decided not to take over the practice after all. Gilbert had started medical school thinking he would like nothing better than to serve a community, but that was before specialists and services and high-risk pregnancies. Anne still had nightmares about the hospital in Charlottetown and Gilbert couldn't blame her. He was not a diligent practitioner of the faith of his forefathers, but Gilbert still thanked God that Anne had been within spitting distance of Kingsport Hospital when Shirley was born. John. John was born. Where was he, anyway? Probably hiding in the kitchen. He had never liked crowds.

"Oh yes," Anne was saying to Rosemary, "we knew Miss Cornelia long ago. Is it true that she adopted a daughter?"

Before Rosemary could reply, the doorbell rang. It was Ken Ford, arms full of roses and looking more like his father every day.

"These are for you, Aunt Anne," he said, bending to accept her embrace.

"Ken! It's so good to see you, darling! How is your grandmother?"

"Doing much better, thank you. Mum and Dad send their best wishes."

Gilbert returned the handshake Ken offered him, grinning to think that the little boy who had tussled with Walter over kittens was in very great danger of being mistaken for a man.

"Let me introduce our guests," Gilbert said. "Rev. Meredith, Mrs. Meredith, this is . . ."

"Ken Ford," Rosemary supplied, an enigmatic smile twitching at the corners of her mouth.

"Have we met?" Ken asked, surprised.

"Not since you were very small," Rosemary said. "But we do have Facebook in Glen St. Mary. I'm your mother's second cousin. Rosemary West."

Gilbert snapped his fingers. "That's it! I knew you looked familiar! I see the family resemblance now."

"That settles it," Anne said, delighted. "We're all family after all."

Indeed, it seemed positively Providential. Gilbert was not superstitious, but there were enough things in heaven and earth that couldn't be explained that he had learned not to dismiss hints from the universe. If some unfathomable Power wanted the Blythes and Merediths in one another's lives, it couldn't made itself much clearer than this, could it?

* * *

Rilla was quite pleased with herself. It had been the work of moments to slip away from the hall and into the dining room, where a little shuffling had put her place card beside Ken's. Now here they were, sitting side-by-side at Thanksgiving dinner. Ken had even held her chair out for her!

Nan and Di had done a lovely job of setting the table. Of course, Rilla would have preferred a few more flowers, but the tablecloth barely peeked through the mosaic of dishes as it was. Bowls of mashed potatoes and green beans and sesame-candied sweet potatoes were interspersed with cut glass dishes of jewel-bright cranberry sauce and gravy boats. All processed up to the turkey which was, without a doubt, the last word in turkeys. After several rounds of mutual deference, Mr. Meredith said the grace and Dad saw to the carving.

"White meat or dark?" Ken asked Rilla when the platter passed to him.

In fact, neither sounded particularly appetizing, not when Rilla's stomach was fluttering with nerves. But she smiled and said she'd take a slice of white, reciprocating by passing Ken the mashed potatoes. She put dainty servings of carrots and stuffing into her plate, but did not eat more than a forkful of anything. Ordinarily, Rilla had a hearty appetite, but nothing appealed today, especially not when she was wracking her brain for something halfway intelligent to say to Ken. Oh, _if only she could talk cleverly_, like Faith, who had her neighbors hanging on every word of an improbable story about socks. _If only she could talk as she herself did to other boys!_††††

Mercifully, Ken spared her the agony of an overlong silence.

"Walter tells me you've gotten to be quite the swimmer," he said between mouthfuls of turkey. "What events are you swimming this year?"

This, at least, had a factual answer and Rilla was absurdly grateful for the opportunity to rattle off her races and times. Ken seemed impressed, or at least not not-impressed. It was easier to talk to him once she got going, though the slight nausea never did wholly disappear.

"If I can shave off a few more seconds, I have a shot at making the freethyle relay," Rilla said, wishing that mortal torments would cease in immediate oblivion.

Ken did not seem to notice, or perhaps he was just too polite to rib her in front of everyone. But there had been a time not so very long ago when he would have howled or mimicked her lisp back to her. Now he merely smiled and asked what she was reading these days.

_A perfect gentleman_. That's what she would write in her diary, anyway. For now, Rilla went on pushing food around her plate and basking in the joy of Ken's polite attention, feeling that all was right with the world.

* * *

Faith was in trouble. Her immediate problem was that she was going to choke because she had taken a mouthful of turkey just as Jem and Ken reached the climax of their shared reminiscence about the time they had dragged Walter into a game of Curse of the Black Pearl that had ended with the very real and unintentional hijacking of a poorly-moored sailboat.

In the slightly longer term, the danger was sitting next to her, tall and jovial and radiating Jamie Fraser vibes without all the brooding. When that thought first occurred to her, Faith had briefly imagined Jem in a kilt, which was absolutely the wrong thing to do. She had no time for any of that. _None_.

Faith attempted to turn her attention to her other side, where Nan was deep in conversation with Father about some long-dead theorist, but it was no use. Even with her head turned, all she could hear was Jem's earnest conversation with Bruce.

"The books always show it wrong," Bruce complained. "A Stegosaurus and a Tyrannosaurus rex would _never_ meet. Stegosaurus lived millions and millions of years before Tyrannosaurus rex even existed!"

"I never knew that," Jem said solemnly. "So they didn't overlap at all?"

"No! Tyrannosaurus rex lived closer to _now_ than it did to Stegosaurus!"

"That's amazing! What about Triceratops?"

Faith tried a new tack, looking over the platters and bowls at Una, who had spent most of the meal sitting in companionable silence next to John. They seemed to have reached some mutual understanding and were even exchanging a few words now and then, mostly about the contents of unfamiliar dishes. Faith reflected that she might have to consider changing her opinion of John. To be sure, he made up the family brooding deficit in spades, but he did not seem to be quite the menace she had imagined. Faith would keep an eye on all that.

"Omigod!" Di squealed from across the table. "That reminds me of the basketball fundraiser last year! Faith, I almost _died_ laughing."

"Fundraiser?" Jem asked, the corner of his mouth already quirking upward.

It was one of Faith's very favorite stories and she told it well. Di was already in fits before she began.

"Well, you see, it was _supposed_ to be a sort of like a petting zoo. The Humane Society was supposed to bring puppies and kittens to the SMAC so that students could play with them and then contribute a dollar or two to both causes. But the messages got a little crossed and they didn't just bring dogs . . ."

Di was crying. "That . . . pig . . . !"

"So, there was this pig . . ."

* * *

Joy didn't really care how many of the place cards had been shuffled. She had caught Jem red-handed, but by the look of things, he hadn't been the only one playing three card monte with the seating arrangements. Joy still had the wide seat at the foot of the table, so the rest didn't matter much to her, but the results were still intriguing. Very intriguing.

There wasn't really anyone for Joy to talk to, though, not with Rilla fixated on Ken and Mum fathoms deep in a conversation about toddler behavior with Rosemary. Further down the table, Di was explaining something basketball-adjacent to Jerry with occasional clarifications from Faith and interruptions from Jem. Delilah seemed to be sulking in the shadow of Di's momentary neglect. John and Una were bent in quiet consultation over a dish, while the look of triumphal pleasure on Susan's face suggested that she approved of either Mr. Meredith's appetite or his theology. Joy watched as pairs and trios combined in the unpredictable alchemy of new relationships, bonding and sparking off one another. It made her feel strangely lonesome, at least until Dad looked up from his place at the opposite end of the table and gave her a reassuring wink.

Suddenly, a sharp yelp brought all conversations to a crashing halt.

"Ugh! John!" Delilah cried, leaping to her feet with enough force to send her chair skidding away from the table. She held out the skirt of her dress, newly decorated with a large crimson blob of cranberry sauce.

"I'm sorry," John mumbled, though he looked utterly perplexed.

Certainly it wasn't like him to spill things, Joy thought. And who on earth had been foolish enough to seat _Delilah_ next to _John_?

Di and Susan were already out of their seats, doting on Delilah as she swiped at the stain.

"Don't you worry, dearie," Susan clucked. "Vinegar will take that right out."

They ushered Delilah toward the kitchen with more reassurances, leaving John red-faced and rigid at the table. Conversations rose again in fits and starts, though Joy still had her eye on John. She had seen that expression often enough when he was small and had run to Susan with his childish troubles. Jem had always been the one to storm about when his pride was wounded; Walter moped extravagantly; John was a hider. It was hardly surprising when he mumbled his excuses and fled the dining room.

"What happened?" Rilla whispered, leaning over the rolls toward Joy.

"I'm not sure."

"Is he ok?"

Joy clucked her tongue. "Give him a minute. If he doesn't come back, I'll go check."

* * *

Una was carrying a stack of plates to the kitchen, but Rosemary took them from her hands.

"Would you go ask Carl if he'd like to come out for cake?" Rosemary asked.

Una knew the old teacher's trick as well as anyone, but that didn't mean she wasn't grateful for the excuse to slip away for a much-needed respite. The Blythes were awfully nice, but they were also a lot. So was Ingleside. Una paused at the end of the hall, not quite sure which way to go.

"Looking for a washroom?" Joy asked, gliding to a stop beside Una.

"I was looking for Carl."

"I can show you where the spare room is."

The extra-wide doors and parquet floors made more sense now, seeing how easily Joy navigated them. Perhaps the house wasn't so large after all; it was just that everything was on the same floor. Joy led Una past the living room and the library, through an arch where the hall branched left and right, and pointed out the door that stood slightly ajar before turning the other way, down a long hall of what must be bedrooms.

Una went on tiptoe just in case Carl was asleep, but she needn't have bothered. He had propped himself up in bed, watching a pair of squirrels chase one another around a scarlet maple. He must have been quite lost in his reverie because he started when she called his name.

"Sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to scare you."

"How was dinner?"

If Una were honest, Carl didn't look all that much better. There were purple rings around his eyes and his chest still rattled when he coughed. Even so, he had refused Father's offer to take him home to the manse for the week, promising that he would follow doctor's orders till he was as good as new. It was difficult to fathom; last year, Una had cried herself to sleep at Thanksgiving when the return to Kingsport loomed. But Carl seemed to be having a better time of it. Una was glad, truly.

"It was very good," Una said, perching on the chair between bed and window. "John seems nice."

"You think so?"

"He didn't make me talk much."

Carl laughed at that, or tried to. When he was done coughing, Una handed him the glass of water from his bedside table.

"Are you really sure you won't come home with us?"

"I can't," he said, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. "I _love_ Redmond, Una. I don't want to miss a single minute."

Una didn't understand that, not the least little bit. But she did understand that Carl was happy at Redmond, maybe happier than he'd been in a long time. She didn't need to understand, she just needed to trust him.

"They're setting out the dessert," she said. "Do you want to come out for birthday cake?"

* * *

Carl had never had a pink birthday cake, and didn't realize the deficit until one was sitting on the table in all its rosy, blushing, candle-spangled glory. It was beautifully iced, like something you'd see on The Great British Bakeoff, and by the number of phones out snapping photos, the rest of the party agreed. Carl just hoped it hadn't been too expensive.

The only thing missing was John. The dining room was crowded, but not so full that Carl hadn't noticed right away that he wasn't there. But Una had said she'd sat with him at dinner, so he must be around somewhere.

Mrs. Blythe had noticed as well. "Where's your brother?" she asked Jem and Nan, both of whom merely shrugged.

"Here we are," said Joy, leading John in from the hall. She offered neither explanations nor excuses, only smiling at Carl and taking up a place near the sideboard. John slid in beside her, peering over the heads of the others at the cake. Carl caught his eye and grinned as Mrs. Blythe got out the matches.

"What kind of cake is it?" Bruce asked as she struck one.

"Hmm. I think it's lemon? Is that right, sweetheart?"

"Birthday cakes should be chocolate," Bruce said with a frown.

"Bruce!" Rosemary said sharply. "That's not very polite."

The Blythes didn't seem to mind, stifling giggles and guffaws. "Do you hear that, John?" Jem chuckled. "Chocolate next time, alright?"

John twitched a shoulder in the same way he had at the hospital, half-apologetic, half-uncomfortable. Carl's mind felt sluggish, lagging half a step behind the conversation. Jem didn't mean that John . . .

"You made this?" Carl asked.

John nodded.

Carl didn't know what to say. Was it more surprising that John could make something so beautiful, or that he had made something beautiful for Carl?

"It's lemon chiffon and raspberry," John said quietly. "I didn't know what you like."

In truth, Carl liked chocolate cake every bit as much as Bruce did, but that was neither here nor there. Many sorts of cake had their good points and this one, a pink birthday cake that John had made with his own two hands, could have tasted like floral foam for all Carl cared.

Doctor Blythe kicked off the singing with more gusto than tunefulness, leading the others in an indescribable key. Carl kept on grinning, both at the glorious trainwreck of a song and at all the bright, candle-lit faces gathered around. Bruce in particular seemed to be enjoying himself, plowing through the lyrics and clasping a little package he had obviously wrapped himself. Carl looked from one to the next, taking a moment to be grateful for their love and for all the trouble they had gone through to be together today.

As the singers crescendoed toward an uncertain finale, Carl worked up a good, slow breath. It was important to get this one right.

" . . . happy birthday to yooooooou!"

Carl buttoned up their eyes and made a wish.

* * *

Notes:

*_Anne of Avonlea_, chapter 2: "Selling in Haste and Repenting at Leisure"

**_Anne of Green Gables_, chapter 16: "Diana is Invited to Tea with Tragic Results"

***_Anne of Ingleside_, chapter 38

****_Rilla of Ingleside_, chapter 11: "Dark and Bright"

†_Anne of Avonlea_, chapter 17: "A Chapter of Accidents"

††_Anne's House of Dreams_, chapter 40: "Farewell to the House of Dreams"

†††_Rilla of Ingleside_, chapter 17: "The Weeks Wear By"

††††_Rilla of Ingleside_, chapter 4: "The Piper Pipes"

Canadians: "stuffing" or "dressing"? Susan says "stuffing" in _Anne of Ingleside_, so I went with that, but feel free to weigh in on the regionalism.

* * *

That seems like a good place to leave things for now.

Thank you all for your support these past several months. I need to put this story on hiatus for a little while in order to deal with some IRL drama and also get my narrative ducks in a row. I'll still read and review and maybe pop in with some one-shots, but I just need some time and distance to come back to this story writing from a place of joy rather than writing to deadline. Thank you all for reading and for sharing your comments. Particular apologies to flavia, for going on a break right after you wrote me such a lovely comment! I promise to return as soon as I can.


	17. A Handbag For Rilla

**A Handbag for Rilla**

* * *

It was half past noon, which meant that Rilla Blythe should have been learning how to calculate the cosine of an angle. Instead, she was standing in front of Nita's Boutique on Park Street, riveted by the handbag on display in the window. It was perfect. Chic and well-made and the very shade of rich green that was made for Rilla, bringing out the red-brown shades of her complexion and what she thought of as her _creaminess_.*

"Oooo!" Olive squealed. "It's _divine!_"

Irene wrinkled her nose. "I don't know. Isn't it a little . . . dull? It looks like a granny bag, if you ask me."

No one had. Certainly not Rilla, who heard nothing but the siren song of Italian leather. It lured her inexorably into the shop, beckoning until she looped the handles over her shoulder and sighed into the mirror.

A saleswoman with an angular black bob and winged eyeliner — possibly Nita herself — took up where Olive had left off. "What a marvelous color on you! It suits you _beautifully_."

It did. Rilla turned one way and another, admiring the bag's luster, which was undimmed by the reflection of Irene's frown.

"It's very practical as well," Nita said. "Big enough to carry everything you need for the day, and there's a pocket here so that your phone is always accessible. We have a 5% discount for Redmond students, too."

Rilla blushed at being taken for a college girl. She could almost see herself as one, the sort of girl who carried a leather tote rather than a backpack, who popped into a boutique between classes without the slightest worry about being caught playing hooky. The bag fit snugly against her side, the leather picking up her body heat as if it were part of her already. The color was perfect, the feel was perfect, the price was . . .

Rilla sucked in a sharp breath. The price tag may as well have bitten her. She couldn't. Really, it was _dreadful_. Rilla's stomach dropped with disappointment. This was _her_ bag, made and meant for _her_ as clearly as if it had been designed on commission. How could she walk out of this store and leave it behind? But that awful price . . .

"You know," said Irene, "I believe I've changed my mind. Now that I see it up close, it's really a nice bag after all. Let me see how it looks on me."

Irene held out her hand and Rilla made up her mind.

"You can hold it for a minute, Irene," she said sweetly. "But I'm taking it home."

They stayed out all afternoon, searching fruitlessly for boots that fit Olive's exacting specifications and getting milkshakes at a perkily retro diner. Usually, Rilla would have gone for the Peanut Butter Fudge Supreme, but neither her stomach nor her wallet was up to the challenge. Rilla scrounged an assortment of change from the recesses of her wallet for plain vanilla, knowing that she was skating very close to the overdraft line, if she hadn't crossed it already. Still, every time she looked down at her side, Rilla knew she had made the right choice. This was confirmed when she posted an #ootd selfie to Instagram and had twenty likes within five minutes.

😍soooo cute

u look amazing!

❤️that bag!

The giddy feeling lasted until Irene dropped her off at Ingleside at an hour that could plausibly have been after swim practice. Standing in the kitchen with her friends gone and her phone out of sight, Rilla was _assailed by qualms_. The bright brass hardware and fetching little tassels that had been so elegant in the boutique seemed_ elaborate and fussy_ here. How had she ever imagined that she could carry this to school instead of her backpack? It was entirely too conspicuous. _And that dreadful price tag!_

Queasy panic surged and Rilla knew she must run back downtown and return the bag before it was too late. Should she call Jem? No, he couldn't keep his mouth shut. Too bad John didn't have a car. She'd have to call a cab and to hell with the overdraft fee. But first . . . Rilla reached for her phone to delete her Instagram post before anyone else saw it . . . and groaned.

NitasBoutique: Looks fab on you! 💃

Why oh why had she tagged the shop? Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Hot frustration built in Rilla's sinuses, but she _would not_ cry over a stupid bag! She might, though. If only she could get to her room without anyone seeing her!

Rilla was halfway down the hall when Joy rounded the corner. Oh, why was this godforsaken house always teeming with people just when you wanted it empty?

"Hey," Joy said casually. "How was your day?"

"Fine."

Joy's gaze sharpened and Rilla endeavored to affect an attitude of unimpeachable blandness. "Just going to get some homework done before supper."

Rilla might have slipped away clean except that she knocked the green bag against Joy's wheel on her way past.

"New bag?"

Rilla did not stop to apologize or to explain, but hurried down the hall to fling herself onto her bed. The pale green duvet welcomed her with a soft puff. She lay still, listening to the milkshake gurgle in her stomach. Rilla pressed a hand to her belly and gave a little moan of disgust. Dairy only bothered her when she was on her period and she couldn't be due again — she'd just had it three weeks ago! She wasn't likely to forget, not when it had started the day of the swim meet against Kingsport West and she'd been four seconds off her best in the freestyle relay. Not that Rilla hadn't been very glad to get it of course, after . . . well, it was good to be certain. Still, the milkshake was hurting her and she wished she had grabbed a hot water bottle from the kitchen when she had the chance.

Homework held no allure. Neither did social media, though a quick check confirmed that her #ootd continued to rack up good numbers. Instead, Rilla put on some music and let Candy Crush sweep her away on a mindless wave of bright-hued oblivion. She lost count of the levels, relaxing into the repetition until a soft knock pulled her back to the world of stomachaches and unbegun essays.

"Who is it?"

"Hello, darling," Mum said, pushing the door open with a warm smile. "May I come in?"

Rilla sat up and gestured to the bed beside her. Mum sat.

"I had a text from Coach Oliver," she said lightly. "She hopes you're feeling better."

The squirmy feeling in Rilla's gut was strong enough now that it would have justified cutting practice on its own, but Rilla grimaced anyway.

"I . . . uhhh . . . I skipped swim practice."

"So I gathered."

"I just wasn't really feeling up to it," Rilla said, building castles on a grain of truth.

Mum frowned. "You've been a bit run down lately. Do you think you're getting sick?"

"I'm fine."

"I'd be happy to make you an appointment with Dr. Morello . . ."

"No, Mum. I just needed a break. I'm sorry about skipping practice. I'll apologize to Coach Oliver tomorrow."

Mum cocked her head as if deciding what to say. Rilla braced for a scolding that did not come.

"I'm entirely sympathetic," Mum said instead. "When I was your age, I used to love going on rambles through the woods when things got to be too much. Everyone needs a break sometimes and I'm sure Coach Oliver would understand. Just tell her the truth next time."

Rilla relaxed a fraction. Maybe it was true that Mum understood. Maybe she really would, if only Rilla would talk to her.

Looking back from the vantage of adulthood, Rilla sometimes wondered what might have happened if Mum had let that particular silence linger a bit longer. If they had sat in companionable fellow-feeling for a few seconds more, might Rilla have found her way toward sharing a confidence? If she had, would things have turned out . . . well, Rilla _refused_ to think "for the better"! . . . but . . . different?

Instead, Mum reached out and brushed her fingers against the soft green leather of Rilla's new purse.

"What a lovely bag! I haven't seen it before, have I?"

"No," Rilla admitted. "I went shopping with Irene and Olive."

A little furrow deepened between Mum's brows as she perused the zippers and tassels, but the smile did not leave her lips until she noticed the price tag that Rilla had tucked into an interior pocket. Then _she just looked at_ Rilla. Mum was _some expert at looking_.

_"Do you think, Rilla," Mum said quietly — far too quietly — _"_that it was right to spend so much for a_ bag?"

_"I paid for it out of my own allowance_," Rilla said.

_"That is not the point. Your allowance is based on the principle of a reasonable amount for each thing you need. If you pay too much for one thing you must cut off somewhere else and that is not satisfactory. But if you think you did right, Rilla, I have no more to say. I leave it to your conscience."_

The threat of tears was returning, but Rilla stifled her discomfort with _a temper — a cold, calm, deadly temper._

_"Mother," she said haughtily, "I am sorry you disapprove of my bag . . ."_

_"Not of the _bag_ exactly," said_ Mum, _"though I consider it in doubtful taste for so young a girl — but of the price you paid for it."_

_Being interrupted didn't improve Rilla's temper, so she went on, colder and calmer and deadlier than ever, just as if her mother had not spoken._

". . . _but I have to keep it now. However, I promise you that I will not get another_ bag until I graduate from high school. _Even you" — oh, the sarcasm she put into the "you" — "cannot say that what I paid was too much when spread over three years."_

_"You will be very tired of that _bag_ before three years, Rilla," said Mum, with a provoking grin, which, being interpreted, meant that Rilla wouldn't stick it out._

_"Tired or not, I will _carry_ it that long,"_ Rilla said.

"If that is your decision, I will say no more about it," Mum said, rising from the bed.

"It is," Rilla said coolly.

When Mum had disappeared through the door, Rilla threw herself onto her pillows in a storm of tears, already regretting _being sarcastic to her mother_. _She hated the _bag_ already. But she had vowed to carry it _until she graduated from high school_ and she vowed to keep that vow, cost what it would._

* * *

Anne sat at her vanity, pausing over a pot of moisturizer. She had never quite succeeded in blotting the seven freckles from her otherwise excellent nose, but she was quite pleased with her complexion otherwise. At 52, her fair skin was still reasonably firm, with only a few indelible crinkles left by a lifetime of laughter. Years ago, Susan had given Anne a stern lecture on the importance of the various masks and potions that she had shipped in special from Seoul. Anne, who could not read Korean, had no idea what was in any of the salves she slathered on her face morning and night, but they certainly seemed to work and Susan had been seen to nod with satisfaction at the state of her skin.**

Tonight, Anne had sighed through her nightly regimen. Ordinarily, it was great fun to imagine herself a fairy queen anointed with pearls of moonshine, or else a powerful crone whose glamours must be replenished before the first star set, lest her true form be revealed. But not tonight.

What were they going to do about Rilla? It was true that everyone needed a break sometimes, but Rilla flitted from holiday to holiday with precious little work in between. Gilbert said she was _a lily of the field — she toiled not, neither did she spin. _It was true that Rilla_ was the only one of Anne's flock who was wasn't ambitious_. That wasn't necessarily a bad thing but Rilla _had no serious ideals at all — her sole ambition seemed to be to have a good time_. Of course, a young girl should have plenty of fun, but Anne wished Rilla could show at least _a little sense of responsibility_. Cutting swim practice was one thing, but that bag! Rilla really was _abominably vain_, and even if that particular apple hadn't fallen very far from the maternal tree, Anne couldn't help but fret.***

It had taken Anne Blythe née Shirley many years to acclimatize herself to having money. The poverty of her childhood was a constant, nagging worry that did not vanish just because she was warm and fed in the present. The jewel-bright bottles of retinol serums and exfoliating creams spread over her vanity were the sort of little luxuries she'd had to teach herself to buy, each one a tiny, still-astonishing declaration that they had enough — even extra. But her children had grown up in a world where sweets and pretty clothes and movie tickets and sports equipment and tuition were about as remarkable as clover in June. She and Gilbert delighted in giving them that sort of life, but now Rilla was shirking responsibility and spending truly dreadful sums on frivolous fashions that she'd discard in a month. What were they going to do?

"You're doing an awfully convincing impression of She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named," Gilbert said as he emerged from the washroom.

"Sorry?"

"You've perfected the art of sighing. I thought I'd come out to find Aunt Mar—"

"Gilbert Blythe! Don't you dare!"

He grinned. "Sorry. Rough day?"

Anne's shoulders drooped. "I'm just worrying about Rilla," she admitted.

Gilbert stood behind her and finger-combed her hair as she retold the afternoon's events. He gave an involuntary tug when Anne quoted the dreadful price tag.

"I know, darling, I know. But it's not the money that troubles me. If you had heard the way she spoke to me — so sarcastic! She's been listless and irritable lately and I don't know whether to give her more space or push her to do better."

"You said she wasn't feeling well," Gilbert said, frowning at their reflections. "Did she say anything more specific?"

"No, not really. She's been tired, I suppose, but you've been saying she's _rather outgrown her strength — she's really absurdly tall for a girl_ just turned sixteen."***

"Maybe the swim team is too much of a strain."

"It shouldn't be. Gertrude encourages them to beat their own times, but she isn't a tyrant."

"_Anything wrong with _her_ metatarsals?_"****

"Oh, Gilbert, I didn't ask! What a thing to say."

Gilbert shrugged at their reflections. "Hormones are a hell of a thing at her age. Any age, really."

Anne scowled at the mirror, though this had little effect on the twinkling hazel eyes. "You have no idea how infuriating it is to have your every emotion blamed on your hormones. Rilla is proud and stubborn and that doesn't have anything to do with the time of the month. Did I mention that she vowed to carry that silly bag until she graduates from high school, just to prove me wrong? I almost wish she'd do it, if only to see her follow through with something for once."

"She's still very young," Gilbert said. "No need to rush her growing up."

He rubbed his thumbs over Anne's shoulder blades with light, firm pressure. Anne didn't particularly want to be soothed. Something was wrong and she didn't quite know what it was, let alone how to set it right. Should she give Rilla more space? Or suggest that she take on more responsibility? Perhaps she could encourage her to form a new club at school, if swimming didn't hold her interest.

"You're thinking awfully loud," Gilbert murmured. "Let it go for now. Tackle it again tomorrow. A new day with no mistakes in it yet, right?"

Anne let herself be persuaded away from the mirror and into bed. She slipped between the sheets — good sheets, crisp and clean and silky against her bare legs — and settled herself against the pillows with her reading glasses and her ARC of _Lincoln in the Bardo_, which was shivery and sad in a way that usually made Anne want to revel in its melancholy. _Canadian Woman_ wanted the review in time for its 2017 Lit Preview, but Anne had been savoring it, rather than picking it apart.

She turned to the marked page, but her eyes slid over the words without absorbing them. Anne caught herself before she sighed again, but traded the book for her iPad. Gilbert frowned over the top of his own book — Crichton _again_ — though he didn't bother rehashing his disapproval of "blue light" at bed time, for which Anne was grateful. Instead, he craned his neck to look as she opened her email and clicked on Walter's latest.

"How is he?" asked Gilbert, who received Walter's newsy emails but not his more literary correspondence.

"He's well. Still in Thailand. He's sent along some drafts. Want to hear?"

Gilbert hesitated half a second, but settled on, "Yes, of course." That made Anne feel better already; Gilbert was nearly as much of a dunce at poetry as she was at geometry, but he'd always made a point of listening to her poems. He tended to fixate on meaningless mundanities and was an outright clod when it came to form or metaphor, but he offered a fresh perspective unencumbered by literary expertise. Besides, he was willing, or at least willing to be willing.

"He's titled this one, 'Switchback,'" Anne said as Gilbert climbed into bed beside her, "and he says it was inspired by a real experience in the Himalayas, so that ought to please you."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Anne gave her husband a mischievous smile. "It means that you have a sparkling gift for finding prose in poesy."

"Thank you!" Gilbert said brightly.

He laughed over Anne's show of dismay, and settled into his pillows as she began to read:

"Switchback"

by Walter Blythe

_I tramp this switchback road in heavy boots  
__And leave my prints to mingle with the dust  
__Of others who have passed along this route  
__And faded with each cleansing mountain gust.  
__I do not need to close my eyes to see  
__Their weary column on this beaten track  
__With pebbles plinking down the dusty scree  
__And damp exhaustion blooming on their backs.  
__One turns and beckons me to fall in line  
__As if he knows me well and I know him;  
__I take the place behind him as we climb  
__And share each heaving breath and aching limb.  
__I follow over every rut and stone  
__But gain the final, craggy peak alone._

After the last line, Anne left a long, sonorous silence like the interval after a church bell. Poems needed to breathe.

When she looked down at Gilbert beside her, he contorted his face into a show of effort.

"So . . . it's a poem about hiking?"

Really, some things were hopeless!

"I'm kidding!" Gilbert protested. "It's . . . well, it's . . . it's a sonnet."

"Well spotted."

"Do you think maybe it's a bit . . ." Gilbert groped for a diplomatic word.

"Eerie?"

"I was going to say _morbid_."

Anne scanned the poem again. Gilbert might not have much use for the Gothic, but Anne understood the pleasure of a thrill. She did not often write Walter's sort of thrills herself, but she could appreciate that they came from some fundamental yearning of his soul.

"Not morbid," she said. "Sensitive. Dramatic, maybe."

Gilbert chewed this over for a moment. "You don't suppose he actually sees that sort of thing, do you? You said it was inspired by a real experience."

Anne was not quite sure what to say to that. She did not actually believe in clairvoyance, not really, but there had been times when she had wondered about Walter. It was perfectly natural for children to have imaginary friends, of course, but she had never quite shaken the suspicion that a 4-year-old would have had a difficult time imagining an elderly lady named Florence who loved horehound candy and Buster Keaton. How did a 4-year-old even know the name Buster Keaton? It did not bother her much, though. After all, Anne had had Katie Maurice and Violetta in her own childhood, when the line between imagination and reality had been blurred. Walter's permeability had never quite closed as other people's did, but that was what made him a poet.

"I think there are different sorts of reality," she said, returning the iPad to her nightstand.

* * *

Notes:

*_Rilla of Ingleside_, chapter 10, "The Troubles of Rilla" — many of the quotations here are from that chapter, some of them lightly edited.

**Do you think that all those over-harbour MacAllisters and Crawfords and Elliotts could scare up a skin like Rilla's in four generations? They could not." _Rilla of Ingleside_, chapter 1, "Glen Notes and Other Matters"

***Anne, re: Rilla in _Rilla of Ingleside_.

****A rare menstruation joke from AOGG canon. _Anne of Ingleside_, chapter 40.


	18. Written in the Stars

_This one is for MrsVonTrapp, my water sign pal._

* * *

**Written in the Stars**

* * *

"Here, try this one," Caela said, spooning a scoop of fragrant chickpeas onto the paper plate Carl held in their lap.

She had come bearing takeout, which wasn't exactly the birthday dinner either of them had imagined, but had the advantage of keeping Carl swaddled and propped up in bed while Caela presided over the kaleidoscope feast arrayed on the desk. She had brought enough food for an entire ward, and certainly more than enough for Carl, whose appetite was still slightly shy of normal. Their lungs were clearing, though, and there was reason to hope that there might not be permanent damage.

Despite being confined to bed, Carl had used the last few days to good advantage. They had an awful lot of YouTube to catch up on, plus Tumblr and Reddit and an extremely helpful Sam Dylan Finch post called "8 Things Non-Binary People Need to Know." That had been a revelation studded with little bursts of euphoria. It wasn't that things had been _wrong_ before, not exactly, but there was no denying the difference between _not-wrong_ and _right_. When Carl prayed over it, they felt nothing but the sort of peace they associated with long afternoons watching ants in the Hollow. Still, the idea that they might . . . possibly . . . be _trans_ . . . was too new and fragile to speak aloud, even to Caela.

"What is this one called?" Carl asked, sniffing cautiously at a forkful.

Caela checked her notes. "Chana masala. It says 'aromatic chickpeas with onion and ginger and' . . . uhhh a bunch of other stuff."

Carl took a bite, intrigued to find the dish simultaneously floral and searing.

"No good?" Caela frowned, her finger poised over her Notes app.

"It's great," Carl gasped, reaching for their water bottle. "Just hot!"

Caela made her own assessment, savoring a single chickpea with a thoughtful expression. "It's good," she said at last. "Almost like eating perfume."

Yes, that was precisely it. Somewhere between flowers and peppers, with shades so subtle that they were difficult to describe. Carl had never imagined any food could taste like this, nor that there was a world of vegetarian options beyond the usual pasta bakes of Glen St. Mary. Caela had brought saag paneer and aloo gobi and other dishes Carl had already forgotten the names of. Hence the Notes.

"Thank you for suggesting this," Carl said, mixing a very little bit of chana masala into a large mound of rice. "Though I'm afraid I'll never be satisfied with dining hall food after this."

"That was inevitable," Caela said comfortably, munching a pakora. "You're a classic Libra."

Carl stifled a giggle. "I've never really been into astrology. Do Libras hate dining halls?"

"As a matter of fact, they do," Caela sniffed. "Libras are aesthetes; they appreciate good food and nice clothes and all the finer things in life. Definitely not dining halls."

It was hard not to laugh at that, sitting on a dorm room bed in threadbare pajamas, eating takeout off a drooping plastic fork. All that astrology stuff was rubbish, but even if it wasn't, Carl was hardly one with a taste for the high life.

"If that's the defining trait, I'm probably the worst Libra around," they said with a little cough.

"Nope. You're practically the Libra holotype. You didn't even have to tell me your birthday; I knew it as soon as I met you."

"No you didn't."

Caela remained resolute. "Sure I did. You're sociable, gentle, peace-loving. Classic Libra."

The spices had nothing to do with the flush rising to Carl's cheeks. It was awfully nice to think that someone thought about them that way, even if it was all a sham.

"You're just making that up."

"Am not!" Caela protested, tossing Carl the rose gold phone. "Go ahead and look up the Libra personality. Go on. Tell me I'm wrong."

Carl felt very silly googling _libra personality_, even sillier when they saw the sites that popped up, with their cringeworthy designs and garish colors. Scrolling, they found one that had at least put a bit of effort into designing cute icons for the various signs. Carl tapped the little golden scales and began to scan the page.

"Aloud, please!" Caela insisted.

"Alright. _Libra_. September 22-October 23. Sign: the scales of justice. Ruling planet: Venus. Oh come on, Caela, you don't really believe all this, do you?"

"Just because it's silly doesn't mean it doesn't work. Keep reading."

Carl obliged, not wanting to offend her.

"Libra is the sign of balance and partnership. A Libra loves harmony, peace, and beauty. You might find a Libra patronizing a chic art gallery or admiring the wonders of nature, but wherever they are, the Libra seeks tranquility. Libra is a friend to all: charming, lovable, sincere, forgiving, gentle, fair-minded, and hopelessly romantic. Libras avoid conflict, sometimes to a fault. Wanting to please everyone can be a weakness, as can the Libra's classic indecision, self-pity, and insecurity. The Libra is a natural diplomat and hates injustice and violence of any sort. The influence of Venus makes Libra a tender romantic partner, though their aversion to conflict can let problems fester."

Carl finished with a flurry of coughs, half because they were out of breath and half because they didn't know what to say. Maybe it was all nonsense, but they had felt a little shiver anyway. These things were written so that anyone could see themselves in any of them. Still, it ought to be easier to tear their gaze away from the link glowing at the bottom of the paragraph: _Click to see Libra's Love Matches_.

"See?" Caela grinned. "It's you, isn't it?"

"I guess it could be," Carl admitted.

"See? Even when you think it's all hogwash, you still find a diplomatic way to keep me happy. Classic Libra!"

She had Carl dead to rights and there was nothing they could do except laugh themself breathless.

"If I'm a Libra, what are you?" Carl asked at last.

"Isn't it obvious?"

"I don't know the first thing about any of it!"

Caela preened. "I'm a Leo of course. July 27. Generous. Charismatic. Warm-hearted. Regal."

Carl was already scrolling, hunting for the little lion icon. "_Leo._ Entitled. Self-centered. Hates being ignored."

Caela shrugged. "I detect no lies. Now, when's John's birthday?"

"How would I know that?"

"Honestly, you're hopeless. You've had, like, weeks for basic recon."

"I'm not stalking my roommate!"

Caela muttered to herself, "Well if he hasn't had a birthday since school started, he's probably not a Virgo . . ."

It was entirely possible that John had had a birthday and never said a word about it. But no, Carl had returned to Gardner Hall to find the door of 126 festooned with streamers and birthday wishes along with the Get Well Soons from the RAs and hall neighbors, and there hadn't been anything like that for John yet. Unless even the RAs didn't know his birthday.

"Do you think there might be a clue around here somewhere?" Caela asked, hopping out of her chair and pulling John's desk drawer open.

"_Caela!_"

"Well, he's a neat freak, so obviously not another Libra."

"Please don't touch his stuff," Carl groaned.

Caela turned away from John's immaculate desk, tapping her chin. "We know he's quiet. Do you think that's more of a shy, cautious sort of quiet or more like a brooding, self-protective shell sort of thing?"

Carl thought back to the Ducks, the cake, the way a spark of humor changed John's whole face, and the way his features had slid shut when they ventured too near a topic he didn't want to discuss.

"Shell. Definitely shell."

"Hmmm. Tell me, would you say he's secretive?"

"Maybe."

"What about mysterious? Cunning? Violent?"

Carl gulped. "I mean, he likes to play hockey, but I would hardly call him violent. Try . . . competitive. Disciplined."

Caela's face scrunched into a tight pucker of disapproval. "I don't know, honey. It sounds like he might be a Scorpio."

"Is that bad?"

Caela sighed regretfully. "No sign is _bad_, per se, but there's such a thing as compatibility. You don't need all that manipulative Scorpio drama in your life. All shells and stings and hidden motives. Libra and Scorpio together are _very_ bad news."

Oh, this was silly! None of it was real! Still, Carl attempted to recall any clue anyone had dropped about John's birthday. If it were coming up soon, one of the Blythes would have mentioned it, wouldn't they?

"Who makes a good match for a Libra?" Carl asked, though really, it didn't matter.

Did it?

"Oh, Libras get along with pretty much everyone," Caela said airily. "But what you really need is balance. A Libra makes a good match with another Libra. Very chill. Very peaceful. The other option is to go for your perfect opposite to keep things symmetrical."

"What's Libra's opposite?"

Caela pointed to Carl's app, indicating a wheel that showed the signs in order. She pointed to Libra, then traced a straight line across the circle to the sign of the ram. "Aries. They're like your other half. Mars to your Venus. Passion to your romance. Action to your indecision."

Carl consulted the horoscopes, tapping the symbol and reading in a murmur.

"_Aries_. March 21-April 19. The ram. Ruled by Mars. Aries is the sign of self. An Aries is a bold, fearless trailblazer with supreme self-confidence. Aries tends to be a bit of an adrenaline junkie, so you may find one scaling a mountain or taking up skydiving. Wherever they are, an Aries will always take the shortest route from A to B, even if that means crashing head-first through a few walls. Aries is first and foremost an individual: bold, competitive, heroic, and action-oriented. They can also be selfish, arrogant, aggressive, and moody. An Aries hates ambiguity, time-wasters, and losing. The influence of Mars makes Aries an intense partner who values clarity and risk-taking, though their need for independence can make long-term relationships challenging."

Caela was doing a very poor job of suppressing her glee at Carl's skeptical expression.

"_Skydiving?_"

"_Balance_, sweetie. Libra and Aries are complementary. As in _you complete me_."

Caela clasped her hands under her chin and made a swoony face that Carl countered with a well-aimed pillow. She collapsed onto the bed in a fit of giggles, then took advantage of Carl's coughing to steal their phone.

"Hey!" Carl managed between gasps. "What . . ."

"Just doing a little research," Caela said, tapping away purposefully.

"Research?"

"Plenty of people put their signs in their profiles. What's John's Instagram?"

Carl made a grab for the phone, but Caela merely rolled away.

"Does he use Twitter? Twitch?"

"Maybe! I don't know!"

"Remind me not to pick you for my special ops squad." Caela muttered, squinting at the screen. Her iridescent lashes glinted as she brought the phone up to her nose. "Hmmm. No Facebook, at least not under that name. You really don't know any of his handles?"

"No, I don't," Carl lied.

"What about his friend?"

"Ken Ford?"

"Maybe I can go through his likes and triangulate. Have you found out whether he's straight?"

"I've been in the hospital!"

"Or I could just text John," Caela said, flicking open Carl's contacts.

"I don't even have his number," Carl said, lunging again.

"No, but you've got a Di Blythe. Hey wait, that's the blue-haired girl from Pride House? What is she, his sister?"

"Yes."

"Excellent."

"Caela,_ don't_ . . ."

They were interrupted by the scraping of a key in the lock. Carl and Caela disentangled themselves in a flurry of limbs and bedding, flying guiltily apart as John stepped through the door.

"I can come back later," John said, averting his eyes and turning back toward the hall.

"No!" _Oh yikes, no._ "John! Wait! This is my friend Caela. She just brought over some food."

"Plenty left," Caela chirped. "Want some?"

John hesitated, but risked a peek to confirm that everyone still had their clothes on. Satisfied that it was safe to enter, he shut the door and dropped his hockey bag on his bed.

"It's really good," Carl added hopefully. "The food, I mean. Do you like Indian food?"

"Sure."

Caela bounced up and pushed a plate at John before he had actually accepted the offer. Carl winced at this forwardness. A call to the ambulance and a birthday cake didn't make them friends. Yet, when they managed to meet John's eye, Carl was pleasantly surprised to find that he was smiling. Not, like, an actual smile involving his mouth or cheeks or anything. But there was a little spark of humor twinkling in the deep brown eyes, a tiny, silent laugh behind the imperturbable mask. _Shell_, Caela had called it. _Oh please oh please don't be a Scorpio_.

" . . . right, Carl?"

"Sorry, what?"

Caela rolled her eyes as if to say _work with me here_. "I was saying that we're celebrating your birthday. Right?"

"Right."

"I love birthdays," Caela continued as John spooned chana masala onto his plate. "It must be nice to have one during the school year. Mine's in the summer, so I always envied the kids who got to bring in cupcakes for the whole class."

"Mmm hmmm," John said, eating with apparent equanimity and only a very little bit of rice.

"Did you have class birthdays when you were a kid, Carl?" Caela asked sweetly.

Carl thought of the time in grade one when Faith and Una had attempted to make cupcakes so that Carl would have something to bring to school for their birthday, and the subsequent explanations to outraged parents that it hadn't been a prank at all, just a misunderstanding, and who on earth stores ipecac in a vanilla bottle anyway?

"Ummm . . . there was one time," Carl said, "when I was in grade two. I had a lovely beetle in my shirt pocket and when everyone started to sing, it skittered right down my arm and onto the plate of cookies. No one would eat them after that."

Caela's eyes flicked up to the ceiling as if seeking divine patience, but John smirked.

"I used to dig up worms and leave them in cans all over the house. Nasty surprise for whoever picked them up."

Carl had several very important follow-up questions, but Caela had grown impatient.

"When's _your_ birthday, John?" she asked, smiling.

"April 2nd. Why?"

"Just curious," Caela said, mouthing _Aries_ to Carl when John looked down at his plate.

Carl wanted to scowl at her, but it was awfully difficult when they were trying to suppress a grin.

* * *

**Review of Shyness and Suggestibility, Chapter 14 **  
**by NerfHerder  
**

What on earth happened between Darcy and Wickham? Is Lizzy just imagining that they have history? It's very like Jane to defend both of them. I appreciate the way you are writing how her shyness overlaps with her willingness to think the best of everyone and how much Lizzy relies on her. Lizzy's the heroine, but Jane's really the best of them, isn't she? I know someone like that.

Still, I do wish Jane weren't quite so nice to everyone. If there's mischief afoot, she'll walk right into it and never suspect a thing until it's too late. Bingley's clueless, too! He's throwing this whole ball and it just seems like he's setting Jane up up to be thrown to the wolves without even realizing it.

There was one little line in this chapter that stood out to me, which is when Jane and Lizzy are surprised that Mr. Collins is allowed to dance. They make fun of him for it, but I sympathized with him! Let me be clear — I am definitely *not* a fan of Collins. But why shouldn't he dance if he wants to? I know it's inconvenient for Lizzy, but I beg you — please don't go barring the clergy from having any fun. They have it hard enough already.

* * *

**To: NerfHerder**  
**Re: Your review of Shyness and Suggestibility  
**

Thank you so much for your review! You're quite right about Jane's (and Bingley's) incorrigible belief in the goodness of others. They're very sweet, but so vulnerable.

I am intrigued by your comments re: Mr. Collins and dancing. The very thought of him inflicting himself on dance partners is enough to send me fleeing in horror! But perhaps you should write a version from Collins's perspective. Convince me!

Though I suppose that would mean that you'd have to get around to reading canon at some point! (Please don't — I'm enjoying your clean-slate reactions as much as anything.)

* * *

**To: CallMeCordelia**  
**Re:Re: Your review of Shyness and Suggestibility**

I am happy to stand up for Collins in the comments, but I don't think I'll be writing anything of my own anytime soon. I once had a school assignment to write a missing scene from a novel and it was truly awful. I agonized over it forever and it still came out completely wooden. I don't know how you do it. You're really very good. Sometimes I even forget about the nitpicking and just let myself get swept along in the story!

* * *

**To: NerfHerder**  
**Re:Re:Re: Your review of Shyness and Suggestibility**

Forget about the nitpicking? Never!

What was the scene you had to write?

* * *

**To: CallMeCordelia**  
**Re:Re:Re:Re: Your review of Shyness and Suggestibility**

It was for_ All Quiet on the Western Front_. Just a little scene in the church when Paul is home on leave.

* * *

**To: NerfHerder**  
**Re:Re:Re:Re:Re: Your review of Shyness and Suggestibility**

Can I read it?

* * *

**To: CallMeCordelia**  
**Re:Re:Re:Re:Re:Re: Your review of Shyness and Suggestibility**

No. I'm not kidding when I say it was bad. Really, really bad. I think it may have been the first time I ever got a B+ instead of an A on an assignment.

* * *

**To: NerfHerder**  
**Re:Re:Re:Re:Re:Re:Re: Your review of Shyness and Suggestibility**

Oh, come on. It can't have been *that* bad if you still got a B+. Besides, can't be worse than the Ginny Weasley fic I wrote when I was in middle school. (Please don't look that one up!)

* * *

**To: CallMeCordelia**  
**Re:Re:Re:Re:Re:Re:Re:Re: Your review of Shyness and Suggestibility**

_"I'll never tell!" vociferated Ginny with a temerarious toss of her flame-colored locks. "You can flog me or burn me at the stake or Cruciatus me forever, but I will die a million deaths before I betray my love!"_

I am *crying* with laughter.

* * *

**To: NerfHerder**  
**Re:Re:Re:Re:Re:Re:Re:Re:Re: Your review of Shyness and Suggestibility**

See? Yours can't possibly be worse.

* * *

**To: CallMeCordelia**  
**Re:Re:Re:Re:Re:Re:Re:Re:Re:Re: Your review of Shyness and Suggestibility**

Ok, maybe. I'll think about it.

Did I tell you I checked _Pride and Prejudice_ out of the library? I was going to start it tonight, but I've got like 17 more chapters of Ginny here.


	19. Athletic Endeavors

**Athletic Endeavors**

* * *

It would be untrue to say that Faith's triceps were screaming. That would imply that they were awake, rather than slogging their way through the motions of the morning conditioning session along with the rest of her body. Six o'clock was obscene.

Faith clanked her kettlebell back onto the rack and surveyed the varsity weight room at the Stuart Memorial Athletic Complex. Her teammates were hyping one another through bench presses and crunches, most of them looking annoyingly spritely. One of the sophomores was even laughing with the conditioning trainer. Wanting coffee — lots — Faith dragged herself over to the leg press machine. She'd done legs yesterday, but the prospect of pushing against some solid resistance appealed to her. It would help concentrate her attention, at least. She set the weights and lowered herself into the seat, gripping the handles and exhaling as she pushed.

_One._ Ok, focus. _Two._ Schedule for the day. _Three._ Conditioning. _Four. _Morning Prayers. _Five_. O-Chem lecture._ Six._ Psych quiz. _Seven_. Kitchen prep shift. _Eight._ Basketball practice. _Nine._ Food at some point. _Ten!_

"Is this some sort of cry for help?"

Faith squinted up against the lights to find Ariana smirking down with her arms crossed over a sweat-stained Redmond t-shirt — one of the retro ones with the old Redstockings logo. Ari was shaking her head fondly, on the edge of laughter as she looked Faith up and down.

"What?" Faith demanded.

Ari gestured toward the stack of plates Faith was lifting. "Are you trying to tell us something by overloading your ankle on purpose?"

It was true — Faith had automatically set the machine at her old standard, rather than the gentler weight she had adopted during her recovery. But the ankle felt perfectly fine! She hadn't even noticed.

Faith stuck out her tongue at a laughing Ari. "Yeah, I'm telling you I'm back," she said. "One hundred percent."

"What's that, like, half-speed?"

Faith grinned, but did not protest when Ari stayed to spot her. It was impossible to drowse with Ari egging her on, cajoling here, praising there, until Faith was fully awake and flying through her sets. The muscles of her calves were firm and sharp-edged as she pressed the plates, her ankle never wavering. Not even a twinge! Ari and Faith swapped places and Faith returned the favor, talking Ari up as she pressed far more weight than Faith could ever hope to manage.

"Show-off," Faith grinned as Ari hopped off the machine, earning herself an affectionate swat.

The bench press was next. Ari loaded the bar with enough plates that Faith winced.

"You don't have to lift this," Ari said.

"I'll give it a go."

Ari drew herself up to her impressive height and rested her hands on her hips. She had a good seven or eight inches on Faith and at least forty pounds of muscle to boot. There was a good reason why Redmond's opponents had such poor rebounding stats with Ari controlling the paint.

That said, Faith was always up for a challenge.

"You're going to collapse one of these days," Ari said as Faith positioned herself under the bar. "You do know that, right?"

Faith adjusted her grip. "Probably not today, though. Spot me."

In the end, Faith only managed five reps before Ari threatened to leave her to her own stupidity if she didn't drop down to something more manageable. But she had given it a go.

Later, in the locker room, Faith twisted her hair up into a wet knot, muscles twinging when she raised her arms above shoulder-height. She might be sorry tomorrow, but only physically.

"How are things in the suite?" Ari asked as she toweled off. "Everybody getting along?"

"It's fine. I'm not home much, but Nan and I get along better than I expected at first, and Di . . ."

Faith stopped herself short. Did Ari really want to know about Di? Granted, Ari was one of the most easy-going people Faith knew. There weren't even any hard feelings between the two of them, even though Faith had come to the conclusion that she really did prefer guys. Ari had laughed that off and only teased Faith about it occasionally. But that had just been a single weekend, nothing like the eight months Ari had been with Di. Then again, she had asked . . .

"I know she's dating Delilah Green," Ari said patiently. "I just wanted to know . . . is she doing ok?"

Faith grimaced. She bought herself thinking time by rummaging in her locker for a pair of scarlet gym shorts that passed the smell test and shoving them into her bookbag for Jerry.

"Delilah's . . . sort of intense," Faith admitted. "But Di seems happy."

"Good. I'm glad. Tell her I said hey."

"I will," Faith promised. Then, in a moment of inspiration, added, "Why don't you come to the terrace Halloween party? We each get five tickets — do you want one? Or two?"

"I couldn't," Ari said.

Faith was already digging around in her bag for the little orange envelopes so coveted by Redmond undergrads.

Ari sputtered as she shoved two into her hands. "You'll need these, won't you?"

"Nah, I already gave two to Carl, and Jerry insisted he didn't need a plus one."

"And what about _your_ plus one?"

Faith hoisted her backpack and ignored Ari's attempt to hand the tickets back. "No way! I've barely got time for meals this semester, let alone dates. You bring somebody."

"You're sure?"

Faith grinned. "The theme is _I Love the '80s_, and they take the costumes pretty seriously, so make sure you go all-out."

The answering smile on Ari's face was all the thanks Faith needed. She bounced out of the SMAC and across the waking campus toward Morning Prayers, buoyant on a healed ankle and the _glow and uplift_ of _having done a kindness to a fellow creature.*_

* * *

Jerry sat in the lobby of the SMAC, waiting. He had his International Law textbook spread on the table before him and a library-bound copy of _Pride and Prejudice_ tucked between the desk and his knee, so that he appeared to be studying while all the while he was reveling in the Netherfield Ball.** CallMeCordelia was right — he couldn't fully appreciate the nuances of _Shyness and Suggestibility_ without having read canon, so he had slunk into the library and told several unnecessary lies about a nonexistent English seminar to the uninterested clerk at the check-out desk. Now Darcy was asking Elizabeth to dance and Jerry was holding his breath.

_Heaven forbid! That would be the greatest misfortune of all! To find a man agreeable whom one is determined to hate! Do not wish me such an evil . . ._

"Hey, there!"

Jerry nearly jumped out of his skin at this warm greeting. True, he was only at the SMAC in the first place because he was waiting for Jem, but he had still been absorbed enough in the story to be startled.

"_International Law_, eh?" Jem said, peering at the textbook as he slid into the chair opposite Jerry. "What's that, the Hague?"

Jerry closed the novel silently and slid it into his bookbag. "In part. It's not all that exciting, though. Mostly just boring stuff like jurisdiction and extradition and Admiralty law."

"Ah, well, I may have to borrow that some time," Jem said with a rueful smirk that made Jerry half wonder if he was kidding.

It was a familiar feeling. Everything Jem said seemed like half a joke and Jerry was still surprised every time to learn that he was always perfectly in earnest. He had meant it when he invited the Merediths to Thanksgiving at Ingleside; he had meant it when he introduced Jerry to his parents as _my friend Jerry_; he had —bewilderingly— meant it when he had asked Jerry to meet him at the SMAC for a round of squash.

"I don't have a racquet," Jerry admitted, which seemed more acceptable than explaining that everything he knew about squash came from the YouTube videos he had inhaled in a panic since saying yes.

"That's ok. You can borrow one from the equipment desk."

Jerry gathered up his things, grateful that he actually did own a small gym bag. It had been full of winter hats and gloves, but he had cleaned it out and begged a pair of Redmond athletic shorts off of Faith.

"Are you taking up jogging?" she asked with barely concealed hilarity as she handed them over at Morning Prayers.

Jerry scowled. "If you ever see me running in public, just assume I'm being chased."

He had rebuffed all further inquiries, not wanting to fuel her mirth. Now he was here with Jem, trying to pretend that he knew where the equipment desk was and how to operate the day lockers.

It wasn't that Jerry had never been to the SMAC before. He'd come to see Faith play in the league tournament her freshman year, and would have come last year too if she hadn't been out with the ankle injury. Then there had been that one week sophomore year when a pipe had burst in his dorm and everyone had to trek across campus in the freezing cold to use the showers. That seemed providential now; at least he knew where the locker rooms were.

When Jerry and Jem had changed out of their street clothes, they headed for the squash courts carrying racquets and waterbottles, Jem in full chatter.

" . . . ever played shinty? I used to play in the Highland games with Ken. He's very good. He played field hockey in a development league for the Indian National Team until he broke his ankle . . ."

_Shinty?_ Did people still play shinty? Sane people?

They reached the elevated catwalk between the basketball courts and Jerry hesitated, looking for Faith among the scarlet-pinnied women running shuttle sprints below.

"Wonder what they did to deserve that," Jem chortled.

Jerry grunted noncomittally. The only sprints he'd ever run had been in phys ed at Lowbridge High, preferring to spend his afternoons with the debate club rather than chasing after a ball. It was only just now coming home to Jerry that he was going to spend the next hour humiliating himself in athletic endeavor. The realization was like an egg cracked over his head, slithering down his back in a cold, slimy gob.

"I'm rubbish at squash," he blurted as they approached the courts.

"Oh?" Jem said with mild surprise. "Have you played before?"

"No."

"Then how do you know you're rubbish?"

Jerry had to concede the point, though it was only the first of dozens. The squash court was loud, close, humid; the ball whizzed, smashed, bounced; Jerry puffed, stumbled, flailed.

"Nice get!" Jem grinned when one wild swing made accidental contact.

Perhaps Jerry ought to have felt patronized, but Jem had a way of bellowing encouragement without making him feel like a complete idiot. He didn't go in for the sort of fakery that Jerry often employed when throwing a game of chess to Bruce, but he did modify his own serve so that Jerry had an outside chance at actually hitting a volley every now and then. Jem also wore himself out diving and sprinting for every feeble shot, looking unreasonably pleased and laughing at himself so often that Jerry never doubted he was genuinely having a good time. Late in the third game, a lucky bounce sent Jem scrambling after a ball he couldn't reach, resulting in a single honest point for Jerry.

"See, you got it!" Jem said, swabbing his face with a towel when the match was over. "You'll be better next time."

Jerry was certain he was on the point of death. His lungs were howling for air, his face was on fire, and he had lost track of his feet. In spite of all that, he found himself smiling as he reached for his water bottle.

"Sure," he panted. "Next time."

* * *

"Let's see, we've got one popcorn, one bag of M&Ms, one pretzel with cheez sludge, a Diet Coke, and a Sprite."

Di took her popcorn and soda from Jem, who was doing an admirable job of managing the overstuffed tray of concessions. He tossed her M&Ms into her lap, then flopped onto the bleachers beside her and propped his feet on the bench in front of them.

There was no need to worry about inconveniencing anyone by spreading out. Only a few dozen fans had come to see the Redmond women's basketball team play their exhibition game against St. Mary's, and even at midcourt, every group of spectators was able to give the others a wide berth. Di recognized many of the regulars, including Ari's parents, who had come over to say a pleasant hello despite Di's efforts to cringe into the cracks between the seats. Some of the fans were chatting pleasantly over the squeaking of sneakers while others played on their phones or watched the team run through their pre-game drills.

"Looks like a good team this year," Jem said through a mouthful of pretzel. "Ari's been working on that short jumper."

"Yeah," Di said. "She had a great tournament last year. Sorry you missed it."

Jem nodded his approval as Ari turned and hit a jump shot that barely ruffled the net. Di took a sip of soda and began to fill Jem in on what he had missed last year. In her freshman year, Di and Jem used to come out to cheer for the team and catch up with one another, occasionally dragging Walter or Nan or Nicole along by invoking a duty to school spirit. But mostly it had just been the two of them, kicking back and enjoying the show. It hadn't been nearly as much fun to watch alone.

This time, Di had invited Delilah, who had seemed keen enough until she realized that Ari would be there, too. _Playing_, Di had protested, not sitting with them. Delilah had gone off in a huff and Di knew she'd pay for it later. She wouldn't have come at all, but it was Jem and basketball and Delilah couldn't _really_ hold that against her, could she?

"Whaddya think of their chances in the league this year?" Jem asked.

Di squished a red M&M into the center of a popcorn kernel and chewed thoughtfully. "Memorial's always dangerous, and Acadia, too. But they've got a shot if Faith's ankle stays healthy. And if she manages to avoid fouling out half the time."

That earned a chuckle, which Jem turned into a question with a laughable attempt at smoothness. "Soooo, tell me more about Faith."

Di bit back a laugh and decided to have a little fun with him. She made a show of unfolding her complementary Redmond Redstockings 2016-7 schedule and consulting the player bios on the back. "Hmmm. Let's see. Faith Meredith. Glen St. Mary, PEI, Provincial All-Star Team in her junior and senior years at Lowbridge High School. It says she's 5'6" but I think that's a bit generous. She averaged 11.4 points per game last year and 2.8 rebounds . . ."

Jem grimaced. "I was looking for something slightly more personal."

"Oh! Well, she loves Sour Patch Kids and she wears a lot of flip flops and she sings 'Bang Bang' in the shower . . ."

"Diana . . ."

Di blinked innocently. "Yes?"

"I meant: is she dating anyone?"

"Oh, _that_," Di said, laughing when Jem rolled his eyes in exasperation. "Let me think . . ."

"Forget it."

Di tapped a buttered finger theatrically against her lips.

"No, wait. Something is coming back to me now. Oh, that's right. I'm pretty sure she had a thing with Ari a while back."

Jem's brows flew upward. "Ari? As in _your_ Ari?"

"I mean, not at the time . . ."

Jem turned owl-eyed toward the court, where the Ari in question was headed to center court for the opening tip. At the whistle, she out-jumped the St. Mary's center and batted the ball to Faith, who shouted orders for a half-court play.

"Are you serious?" Jem asked.

"Like a heart attack."

"No, come on. Really?"

The pretzel lay forgotten in the tray and Jem looked earnest enough that Di decided to relieve his misery. "Don't worry," she said, patting his knee. "As far as I know, it didn't really go anywhere. She mostly dates dudes. Though, she's not with anybody at the moment and I've heard her say that she has absolutely no time for any of that this year."

Jem acknowledged this with an exasperated exhalation. "You could have started with that, you know."

"And miss the look on your face? Never."

Di cackled as she assembled another salty-sweet morsel. She wasn't surprised that Jem was interested. Faith was beautiful and vivacious and Di spent quite a lot of time assuring Delilah that roommates meant _roommates_ and nothing more. Still, Faith's _beauty and aplomb rather overshadowed other girls, and _Delilah_ did not enjoy being overshadowed_.*** Di had offered to spend more time at Delilah's to soothe her rumpled feathers, but this suggestion was turned away with a deep sigh. Delilah's own roommates sniped and whispered, picking at her endlessly _because she was so different_.**** Delilah would just have to bear up as best she could.

"Do you think she's serious?" Jem asked, eyes fixed on Faith as she deployed her teammates on defense. "About not dating?"

"I guess so," Di shrugged. "She's always busy with practice or work or classes. Sometimes we'll hang out for a study break, but I don't think she really goes out."

"Never?"

"It's not like you go out either," Di observed. "Every time I text you, you're always at the ambulance. Even Saturday nights!"

Jem took another bite of his pretzel, licking cheez from the corner of his lips. "Saturday's our busiest day," he said through a mouthful. "Everyone's out having fun."

"Not you. Or Faith."

Something gleamed in Jem's eye, and Di recognized the zeal of the recruiter. "You could come join us, you know. You'd make a great paramedic!"

It wasn't the first time he'd asked, and Di really had been thinking about it. She'd been doing more health advocacy through Pride House lately, organizing Safer Sex workshops and attending a weekend training for street medics that had taught the basics of first aid and treatment for chemical deterrents. It would be good to have more training if she was serious about being useful at actions.

"I might be interested," she admitted, smiling back when Jem's face split into a grin. He launched into a recitation of the classes she'd need to take and the exams she'd need to pass, promising his own encouragement and assistance. He only stopped to suck in a breath when Faith launched a three-pointer from several steps beyond the arc. She buried it, and Jem leapt to his feet, cheering with the rest of the crowd and spilling salt and crumbs all over the floor.

When he sat again, Di poked him affectionately. "You know, I just thought of something."

"Oh?"

"The Halloween party. You're coming, right?"

"_Nobody axed me_," Jem said, leaning back and lacing his hands behind his head.*****

Di pulled a little orange envelope from her coat pocket and dangled it in front of his nose. "I'd give you two," she smirked, "but I don't suppose you'll be bringing a date."

Jem took the ticket with a grin. "No, I don't suppose I will."

* * *

Notes:

_*Rainbow Valley_, chapter 24: "A Charitable Impulse"

**_Anne of Green Gables_, chapter 30: "The Queens Class is Organized"

***_Rilla of Ingleside_, chapter 3: "Moonlit Mirth" — In canon, it is Rilla who resents Faith's beauty and charisma.

****_Anne of Ingleside_, chapter 37

*****_Anne of the Island_, chapter 25: "Enter Prince Charming"


	20. Sorry, Not Halloween Yet

Shoutout to Evaseawynd, who wanted more Wilkie, and to samanthavimes, captain of #TeamAnthony. Also special thanks to Alinyaalethia for chatting about choir logistics back in the Before Times.

* * *

**Sorry, Not Halloween Yet**

* * *

"Hey! Wait up!"

Carl was already halfway down the chapel steps, but turned to see the sandy-haired baritone from the choir hurrying after them. Without his dignified scarlet robes, the boy looked just like any other Redmond student, overburdened with books and always running five minutes behind. He caught up with Carl and smiled as if they were old friends.

"You're back!"

He looked so pleased that Carl couldn't help smiling at him, though they had a terrible suspicion that they were supposed to know his name. Had they been introduced and Carl had forgotten? No, they didn't think so. He was only "cute baritone, second from the left."

"I thought maybe you had stopped coming to Prayers," the boy blurted. "People do tend to drop out after a while."

"I was sick," Carl explained. "Pneumonia."

"Oh! I'm sorry. I mean, I hope you're feeling better."

"Thanks. I am."

"Is that why you weren't singing today?"

Carl cocked their head in surprise. It was true that they had only listened today, afraid that trying to sing might send them into another coughing fit that would interrupt the service. They'd never imagined that anyone would notice that they had stayed quiet.

"Ummm . . . yes?"

The boy blinked, perhaps remembering that staring at someone over a choir stall for fifteen minutes each morning did not, in fact, constitute an acquaintance.

"I'm Anthony," he said. "Sorry. I should have started with that. Anthony Marckworth."

"I'm Carl Meredith."

"We can hear you. In the choir, I mean. You have a beautiful voice." Carl tried to protest, but Anthony persisted. "I mean it. Have you ever sung in a choir?"

"Only my church choir at home," Carl admitted. "But it's nothing like yours."

The Glen St. Mary Presbyterian choir did not discriminate on the basis of talent. Rosemary led them with infinite patience and assigned solos according to an alphabetical rotation so that there were no hard feelings. By rights, Carl ought to have had a solo every Sunday, but that wasn't the point.

"Have you ever considered auditioning? We're always looking for good tenors."

Truth be told, Carl had wondered about the choir, but had dismissed the idea. There was a weekly choir schedule posted on the chapel bulletin board that showed two evening rehearsals plus Morning Prayers and Sunday services and the odd wedding or funeral. Carl couldn't devote that much time to anything that wasn't school or work, no matter how much they might want to.

"Sorry," they told Anthony. "I don't think I can. I have a job."

"A job?"

"At a research lab. With the rats."

"We get paid, you know."

No, Carl hadn't known. Paid to sing? "Really?"

Anthony was nodding enthusiastically. "We get a stipend and we get paid extra for weddings and things like that. They give us free voice lessons, too. How else do you think they found sixteen undergrads willing to get up for Morning Prayers every day?"

Carl chuckled at that. "I go to Morning Prayers and nobody's paying me."

"All the more reason to audition. You're there anyway."

Anthony rummaged in his bag and pulled out a card embossed with the Redmond Choir logo and URL. "They'll post the audition announcement soon," he said, handing the card to Carl. "Think about it?"

"I will. Thanks."

Anthony beamed and began to walk away without bothering to look where he was going. He nearly collided with a professor carrying a thick file of papers, stumbling and apologizing as he regained his balance. He shot an embarrassed grin in Carl's direction, then hurried off at a clip that suggested he must be running very late indeed.

* * *

Nan refreshed her email and told herself that she was not disappointed. After all, she was very busy. She had a mountain of reading to do and a French literature essay to write and she owed ever so many reviews. It was plainly ridiculous to feel let down by Inbox (0).

Out in the common room, the suite door opened and Nan perked up. Maybe she and Di could grab a coffee? Alas, the unmistakable shriek of a Delilah in high spirits and the click of Di's bedroom door sent Nan scrambling like a fire alarm. Book, keys, and phone flew higgledy-piggledy into her bag as muffled laughter propelled her out her own door and down the hall at speed. Nan had shared a bedroom with Di her whole life and never minded, but sharing a bedroom wall had proved to be a horse of different color.

The bright crispness of October was mellowing into duller browns. Maple leaves that had whirled like Spanish dancers on the sprightly breeze were settling into sodden drifts against the curb, no longer crunching or rustling underfoot. Still, it was not quite November, and Nan decided to wring one last day out of the dying autumn.

By the time she turned onto Park Street, Nan was already wishing that she had thought to wear a hat, but it was nothing a cinnamon dolce latte wouldn't fix. Besides, waiting in line at Starbucks gave her a chance to check her mail again. The bubble of excitement she felt at Inbox (1) was pricked in an instant. Just another installment in the interminable thread of Halloween party planning. Nan archived it without even opening it.

She felt better in the park. She always did. Once, when she was a little girl, Nan had explained to a skeptical classmate that heaven would certainly have trees._ Mother can't live without trees and I can't, so what would be the use of going to heaven if there weren't any trees?* _Unimpeachable logic. But then, she didn't go to the park for logic. She went for the tang of pine-spiced wind in her hair and the lapping of little waves that could pluck a twig from her hand and carry it out to sea, past the Grand Banks and onward until it washed up again on the shores of Iceland or Shetland or Casablanca.

It was a wonderful park, vast and rambling, with sunny paths and woodsy dells, to say nothing of the pebbled beach. It couldn't touch the wild red cliffs around Avonlea for drama, but it was a pleasant place to sit and read, at least when it was not quite so wet.

For the sake of her skirt, Nan bypassed the shaded lawns and headed for the picnic tables down by the Naval Memorial. There were a few joggers on the path, some with dogs, some without, but no one lingered in the shadow of the great Cross of Sacrifice. Nan wiped down a bench and table, sipped her coffee, and settled in to read.

Truth be told, she was finding _Cyrano de Bergerac_ a bit of a slog, but it was all part of a larger plan. If she was serious about working in government, she needed fluent French. Not just conversational French — nineteenth-century dramatic literature-level French.

_Les mots chers et fous,  
__C'était vous. . .  
__La voix dans la nuit, c'était vous!_

She tried, but her heart wasn't in it. Under normal circumstances, she would be rehearsing a blistering attack on Cyrano, a creep and a liar who disdained women as shallow creatures incapable of looking past an unsightly nose. Nan would want to be ready in case someone had the gall to defend him in class, but the imagined duel just wasn't holding her attention. Lines slipped past, imparting little more than the shapes of words. She'd have to read it all again, wouldn't she? _Cher et fous, c'était vous_ . . .

Nan let the play droop in her hand. She let her mind drift out toward the glittering sea, where a distant sail scudded along like a fallen cloud. Nan had always liked _to watch the fishing boats going out and coming in, and sometimes a ship drifting down the harbour, bound to fair lands far away. Like Jem, she often wished she could sail away in a ship, down the blue harbour, past the bar of shadowy dunes . . . on, on, to enchanted islands in golden morning seas. Nan flew on the wings of her imagination all over the world_.** She tried to construct Milan from Persis's rapt descriptions and selfies, but you couldn't really begin to know a place until you'd smelled it and tasted it and measured it with your own footsteps. A little more than two months from now, she'd be making a start.

But first, French literature. Or not. The book might as well have been padlocked for how difficult it was to open. Nan checked her phone instead.

Inbox (1)

Hearts do not actually go leaping about, at least not according to Dad, but he always said it with a twinkle in his eye. Nan's did, physiology be damned. It remained suspended in mid-leap as the page failed to load over the park's dubious cell reception. Nan pressed her lips into a flat line, regretting that desolate, windswept shores had ever been invented.

Watching the stalled progress bar would not help. Nan turned her phone face downward on the picnic table and took a slow, deliberate sip of her latte, counting ten before allowing herself to check again. When she did, her anticipation dissolved into surprise.

**Toomey, Patrick  
**Subject: saw this and thought of you

Patrick? Nan couldn't help but be slightly curious. Neither of them had stayed in touch, and she hadn't so much as entertained the idea of regretting it in weeks. But . . . he had thought of her?

_Hey,  
__This was just announced — sounded like you. Want me to put in a good word?  
__P._

Nan clicked the link and read, neat brown brows rising with every line. The Speaker was offering three Summer 2017 internships for undergraduates. Bilingual candidates only. There was no stated preference for candidates from Kingsport West, but surely being from the Speaker's own riding couldn't hurt . . .

_Want me to put in a good word?_

Nan grasped her phone firmly in both hands and let her thumbs fly.

_Dear Patrick,  
_

_Thank you so much for thinking of me! This internship sounds like a wonderful opportunity and I'll definitely look into it more closely. There's no need to put in a good word with anyone, though — if I'm selected it will be on my own merits._

_It's good to hear from you. I hope you're well. Have you seen the new collection of Laurier's speeches that's just come out? It's front and center in the bookshop windows here, but I haven't had a chance to look it over yet._

_Thank you again for thinking of me._

She hesitated over the signature. Certainly not "love" and probably not "yours" either. "Your friend" sounded impossibly juvenile and "sincerely" was out of the question. She wrinkled her nose and tapped out "Best wishes," hitting _send_ before she had time to reconsider. She did reload the page, though, just to check that there were no other new messages. There were not.

The earlier flash of adrenaline was gone now, replaced with a slower, steadier sense of expectation. A hundred people would apply for each spot, but Nan didn't see why she shouldn't win one. She would read over the essay prompts this evening and devise a strategy. But first, French literature. _Bilingual candidates only_. Nan wrenched _Cyrano de Bergerac_ open and resumed her reading.

* * *

John frowned at the jar of olives. How was it possible that Wilkie had no actual food in his refrigerator? There was a carton of orange juice, some tonic water, and a bottle of champagne, but the only edibles that weren't _edibles_ were the olives and a couple of stray limes.

The cabinets were little better. John found a few more unopened mixers and a half-empty can of cashews that he recognized as the offering he had brought to the last poker night. A small collection of ketchup and soy sauce packets rounded out Wilkie's pantry.

John sighed. He should have checked before he went for his run. At least he could have stopped somewhere and brought back some eggs. Though, come to think of it, did Wilkie even have a pan?

"What on earth are you doing?"

John looked up to find a freshly-showered Wilkie emerging from the bathroom with a towel slung low across his hips. He was the very picture of casual unconcern, though he must have heard John clattering around and draped the towel so that it highlighted the trail of dark hair running south from his navel. It wasn't quite sporting, John thought, to go around looking like that when people were trying to concentrate on other things.

John averted his eyes. "I'm making breakfast. Or, I would be if you had any food."

Wilkie padded across the room and sidled past John. The kitchenette was narrow, but not quite narrow enough to make it strictly necessary for him to brush against John in passing.

"Ugh, you're all sweaty," Wilkie complained, twitching away.

"I went for a run."

Wilkie rolled his eyes theatrically and opened the fridge for orange juice. John set a pair of glasses on the counter, but regretted it when Wilkie brought out the champagne as well. Some of his skepticism must have shown because Wilkie raised a brow as he popped the cork.

"It's Sunday," Wilkie said, pouring two mimosas. "Brunch."

John knew better than to refuse the glass. "Doesn't brunch usually involve food?"

Wilkie waited until John had taken a sip before bestowing a satisfied smile. "Where do you want to go? Crown Tavern? Bergamot?"

To be honest, John didn't want to go anywhere but back to the dorm to shower and change. He was supposed to be at Ingleside in an hour to make tarte Tatin. Susan had already prepped the apples.

"What?" Wilkie asked icily. "Don't want to be seen with me in public?"

That wasn't the least bit true! It wasn't John's fault that they never went anywhere. Wilkie was the one who shot down John's suggestions for outings that might incidentally resemble dates with such withering pity that John had long ago given up asking.

"I'm not afraid to be seen with you," John flared.

"Good. I paid for a whole table at the Crow's Nest for my birthday and you'd better be there."

John should have been pleased. As a general rule, he didn't have much use for clubs, but the Crow's Nest was better than most. It operated on weekends and holidays in the loft space above the Lighthouse, serving as an alternative to the handful of gay bars in Kingsport, most of which were too small for dancing. John wasn't big on dancing, but if that's how Wilkie wanted to spend his birthday, he wouldn't object. It was only . . .

"Next Monday?" he asked.

Wilkie took a swallow of his drink. "One of the perks of a Halloween birthday is that everyone's always ready for a party."

John hesitated. Last year, Wilkie's birthday had passed during one of their periods of not speaking. This past spring, Wilkie had let John's 18th birthday pass with only a crack about how the third time might the charm. Therefore, it had not occurred to John that Wilkie was a birthday party sort of person. Certainly not a cake sort of person. John hadn't even considered keeping the evening free, which was stupid of him, now that he thought about it. But it wasn't like they had ever penciled one another into their calendars before. What did this mean?

John couldn't think of anything to say, so he said nothing for long enough that Wilkie clicked his glass onto the counter and cocked his head. "What?" he asked. "Do you have other plans?"

He did, actually. Di had coaxed John into promising that he would put in an appearance at the terrace Halloween party, and had promptly trumpeted his acceptance to Joy and Mum and Susan so that there would be no end of disappointed concern if he didn't show up. Using Wilkie's birthday as an excuse was a nonstarter. John would rather spend the Blythe's annual Christmas party chained to Aunt Mary Maria than answer even a single one his family's inevitable questions about Wilkie. They would ask things like _How did you meet?_ and _How long have you two been together?_ and the thought of trying to explain apps and trust-me-he's-definitely-not-my-boyfriend to _Susan_ made John want to dissolve with embarrassment.

"No," John blurted. "No plans, I mean. I'll be there."

"You'd better. Ten o'clock."

Someone who had only recently met Wilkie might have thought that this was an invitation, but John had failed enough of his tests to recognize one in the offing. Not this time, though. He would pop into the Halloween party early, greet enough of his siblings to make himself unremarkable, and get to the Crow's Nest with time to spare.

"Brunch . . . ?" Wilkie asked again. "Surely you can spare an hour or two."

John wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing him flinch at the name. That was the way to manage Wilkie. Never let him see a weak spot or he'd never let it alone.

"Crown Tavern," John said. "But I've only got an hour."

Magnanimous in victory, Wilkie slid the hand around to the small of John's back and pulled him in for a lingering kiss. He tasted sticky-sweet and bubbly, and John let go of the hope that perhaps he'd be able to get away in enough time for tarte Tatin after all. He'd make it up to Susan.

* * *

"Does it really have to be pink?" Joy asked.

Jem wiped dusty hands on his jeans and frowned. "The pink is the whole point!"

He had dragged half a dozen dusty old boxes down from the crawl space and opened them in the living room, where they were making Joy sneeze and snicker in equal measure. Mum could never bear to part with "good" clothes that might prove useful one day, and now she would be vindicated by Jem pawing through all her old stiff-shouldered blazers and velour jumpers. He held up a windbreaker that existed at the junction of Easter egg and road sign, making a face that reduced Joy to helpless giggles.

As if laughter had conjured her, Mum poked her head into the living room. "Having fun?"

She came to perch on the arm of the couch, close enough that Joy could smell the onions she had been chopping in the kitchen with Dad. The scent of something that promised to be cheesy and bubbly followed in her wake, along with the echo of music that definitely wasn't Josh Groban playing over the Sonos. Mum settled in, smiling fondly as Jem pulled the turquoise windbreaker tight against his chest.

"How do I look?"

Joy snorted. "Even if you do find a dress in there, it will never fit you."

"What do you think, Mums?" Jem asked, preening.

"It really depends on what you're going for," Mum said, not laughing, but looking as if she _could_ laugh. "If you're planning on going as Hulk Hogan, I think that top will tear nicely."

Joy tipped sideways onto the couch cushions, laughing until she was weak. She didn't even reach up to stop her glasses slipping from her nose and dropping onto the couch. Jem balled up the windbreaker and aimed it at her head, glowering when it billowed and fell short.

Joy wiped her eyes and grinned at Mum. "He's looking for a pink dress."

"Pink?"

"It's for Jem," Jem said unhelpfully. "I mean, I'm going as Jem. Like, Jem and the Holograms Jem."

Mum tucked her bottom lip between her teeth, but it was no use. She spluttered, which set Joy off again.

Undeterred by their hilarity, Jem called up a reference image on his phone. It showed a glam 1980s cartoon character: Barbie-doll proportions, hair like an un-chopped truffula tree, oversize glitter-star earrings, eye paint down to her cheeks, a dress that barely skimmed mid-thigh, and all of it pink, pink, PINK.

"I've already got the wig and the belt. I couldn't find heels my size, so I covered some Crocs with hot pink duct tape. But I still need a dress."

"You won't find one in there," Mum apologized. "I never wear pink. Redheads really shouldn't."

"I suppose I never really thought about it," Jem admitted.

"_I'm so glad I have two daughters who can wear pink_," Mum said, reaching out a hand to pet Joy's brown braid.*** "I always did love buying clothes for you, darling. All the sweet little pink dresses I'd always wanted . . ."

"Hang on," Joy said, her mind whirring. "You liked buying pink clothes that you couldn't wear?"

"I loved it. You had this adorable pair of fuchsia overalls that . . ."

Joy reached for her crutches and made for the door without another word. Mum and Jem followed, but Joy did not stop until she reached the end of the main hallway, where the bedrooms branched off from the rest of the house. She halted in front of the framed wedding photo that hung at the junction. Mum and Dad, both of them beaming under the apple-heavy trees in the Green Gables orchard. Uncle Fred and Aunt Jo stood by Dad's side with their glorious '80s hair, while Mum had Aunt Diana and Auntie Phil, both of whom wore long dresses with voluminous puffed sleeves in a startling shade of

"Pink!" Joy exclaimed.

"The bridesmaids' dresses?" Jem asked, leaning closer to inspect them.

"Of course the bridesmaids' dresses! Look at the sheen on them. What were they made of, Mum? Pink lamé?"

Mum's face softened in reminiscence. "Aunt Diana and I picked those out together. They were just exactly the dresses we'd always dreamed of. Auntie Phil wasn't thrilled about it, but she went along out of love."

"You don't suppose Auntie Phil still has hers?" Joy asked.

"Her dress? I'd say she probably burned it the moment she got home, but I think that sort of fabric just melts rather than catching fire."

Joy flashed a grin at Jem, who had caught her drift and was already reaching for his phone. "Let's ask her!"

* * *

Notes:

*_Rainbow Valley_, chapter 11: "A Dreadful Discovery"

**_Anne of Ingleside_, chapter 30

***_Rainbow Valley_, chapter 3: "The Ingleside Children"


	21. That's Not How It Works Anymore

_Many thanks for all your kind messages. My apologies — I just can't get a whole chapter out at the moment. In the meantime, here is a single scene. Thanks especially to Guest reviewers — I can't thank you in person, but I have appreciated all your generous reviews. I hope you are all well and safe._

* * *

**That's Not How it Works Anymore**

* * *

Carl sat as still as they could, eyes closed, taking shallow breaths of powder-scented air. It was very difficult, especially since Caela had Hozier playing in the background. She had already chided Carl for moving their lips when they could have sworn they were still as a stone. Carl flexed their fingers in their lap, willing their eyelids immobile as Caela applied primer, liner, and shadow, narrating as she went.

"This tangerine is going to do _amazing_ things for your eyes. It's got a little bit of shimmer to it."

"Don't you think . . ." Carl began, but Caela shushed them.

They tried again, moving their lips as little as possible. "Isn't it a bit . . . I don't know . . . _cutesy_?"

Caela was unbothered. "There's nothing wrong with cutesy. Who cares, as long as you like it?"

"I do like it," Carl assured her. "It's just . . . a _kitten_?"

Caela snapped her palette shut. "Look, you're the one who wanted to go as an animal. Lisa Frank's leopards are _iconic_ '80s cuteness! Besides, there's no way I was going to let you go as a rat."

"Rats are cute!"

"Human-size rats are _not_ cute."

"You just said it doesn't matter what other people think!"

"I said it's alright to be cutesy if you want to be. You can be a rat if you like, but you're on your own, makeup-wise."

"Can I open my eyes now?"

"Yes."

Carl's eyes fluttered open to find Caela's nose mere inches from theirs. She had already done her own makeup, featuring a bright rainbow splashed across half her face and several glittery stars. She had even popped in emerald contacts that made her normally dark eyes seem to glow. With clip-in extensions in every imaginable color and a headband sporting a single horn, she was very definitely a unicorn. A cute one.

"Hmmmm," Caela frowned, reaching for an eyelash curler. "Hold still again."

When Caela finally allowed Carl to stand in front of the mirror, they stared. There was no denying the cuteness. Another afternoon of thrifting had yielded many treasures, including the purple leopard-print leggings that were a bit too snug for Caela, but fitted Carl like . . . well, like nothing they'd ever worn in public before. On top, Carl wore an electric blue t-shirt cropped short and off the shoulder, with brightly striped terrycloth wristbands and a pair of fuzzy turquoise cat ears.

The outfit was fabulous, but it was their face that made Carl gasp. Caela had painted leopard spots over a background of chaotic color, and outlined their lips in sparkling purple. But their eyes . . .

"How . . . how did you . . . my eyes?"

Caela beamed. "Neat trick, huh? I just blotted out the lower lashes and lined nice and dark below your natural lash line. That's how anime cosplayers make their eyes look _huge_."

"It's amazing," Carl said. "How did you . . . they're so _blue_ . . ."

They reached up to touch their face, but Caela swatted their hand away before they could smudge her efforts. "That's all you, sweetie. I just dressed them up."

_Thank you_ seemed inadequate and kisses too likely to muss, so Carl put an arm around Caela's pink-leotard waist and squeezed. "It's perfect. Really, thank you."

"Not quite. Sit again — you need a bit more shimmer."

Carl obeyed, sitting still as Caela dusted and adjusted. The desk in front of them was crowded with Caela's hoard of cosmetics, which made Carl's clandestine stash look like pennies in comparison. The second bed was cluttered with sample boxes, hair-related-appliances, and the headphones Caela used when editing her YouTube tutorials. Both desk and bed would have belonged to Caela's roommate, if said roommate had not stormed down to the Housing Office on the first morning of term and demanded to be reassigned. Not wanting a fuss, the administration had declined to provide any replacement. Caela had observed over-cheerfully on several occasions that this made her the only freshman girl on campus with both a single room and a vanity, with the added bonus that she didn't have to live with a bigot.

The brush tickled over Carl's throat and they swallowed hard. "Caela? Can I ask you something?"

"Only if you want to hear the answer."

Carl was not entirely sure they did. They'd watched every video, read every thread, even delved into the caverns of tumblr. Everyone else seemed so confident. Like Caela. She knew who she was and so did anyone who came within shouting distance. Well, at least they could trust her to tell the truth, even if it hurt.

"Ummm . . ." Carl gripped the seat of the chair to steady themself. "I don't mean to pry, and you don't have to answer, but . . . uh . . . when did you know? That you were a girl?"

Caela shrugged easily, sweeping the brush over Carl's collarbone. "Always. I mean, I had to learn how to talk before I could tell my mum about it, but I never thought I was a boy. I wore a dress to my third birthday party."

"Oh. And that was it?"

"As far as I was concerned, yes. My mum was a brick. My dad . . . well, he tried to convince me that I was mistaken, but Mum showed him the door."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be." Caela fussed with Carl's hair, adjusting their cat ears. "Why do you ask?"

"Just curious."

They lapsed into silence, unable to formulate a follow-up. Caela went on prodding until Carl's hair had been arranged and rearranged to flagrant excess, given that it would just get mussed at the party anyway.

"Some trans people . . ." Caela said slowly, "are like me. They know who they are as kids and have supportive parents — or I guess _one_ supportive parent in my case — and that's that. Some other trans people know early, but they don't say anything right away because it isn't safe enough for them to come out yet."

"That makes sense." Carl had expected as much. Of course everybody knew from the time they were kids, whether they could act on it or not. Really, it was silly to have hoped for anything different.

"Alsooooo," Caela continued, drawing out the word, "there are_ some_ trans people who don't work things out till they're a bit older."

Carl was stiller than they ever could have been by choice. "Really?"

"Sure. My endo is a trans guy who didn't realize he was trans until he was in his 40s."

"Oh."

"He says it's never too late."

"Oh."

Caela went on tiptoe. "Carl? Did you ever think that maybe _you're_ a girl?"

"No . . ." Carl breathed, "I mean . . . I never did until I came here. And even now, I'm pretty sure I'm not. But . . ."

Caela rested a soft hand on Carl's shoulder. "But what, sweetie?"

"But I'm pretty sure I'm not a boy either."

It had been true before they said it, tucked up safe inside. Now it peeked out and found only Caela's triumphant smile.

"So, does that mean you're non-binary?"

"Yes. I think so. I mean yes. I'm . . . non-binary."

There. They had said it aloud.

Caela squealed and threw her arms around Carl, endangering the work of hours. "I'M SO HAPPY FOR YOU!"

She held on tight, wriggling with glee until they were both laughing. Carl hadn't expected euphoria. They weren't quite sure what they _had_ expected — having to justify themselves? pass some sort of test? — but now they had said it aloud and it felt like a spell that re-shaded the whole world in Lisa Frank colors.

"You know, I always knew you were an egg." Caela said with a wicked twinkle behind the emerald contacts. "Right from the first."

"You did not!"

"Did so!"

"How could you possibly know before I did?"

Caela grinned under her rainbow. "I'm exceptionally perceptive." With a mighty shove, she cleared a spot on her not-roommate's bed and flopped down on her leotard-clad stomach, her yellow tights and teal leg-warmers waggling with excitement. "Tell me _everything_."

It all came spilling out as if in time-lapse: how the new clothes felt like wearing the right skin; how Carl had never known how much they wanted a pink birthday cake until the candles were lit; how relieved they felt to unite a whole constellation of nebulous discomforts under a single name.

"I don't think I've thought of myself as _he_ in months," they said. "Not since that first night at Pride House. And now, when other people call me _he_ or _him_, it feels . . . not wrong, exactly, but just . . . not right. Like when someone calls me _Thomas_. It's just not _me_."

Caela nodded very seriously for her, which was somewhere on the giddy side of neutral. "So do you have new pronouns?"

"Well . . . I don't know . . . maybe . . ."

Caela hopped up from the bed and put her hands on Carl's shoulders, gently but firmly. "You don't have to hedge or apologize. Just tell me."

"Well . . . I think . . . I think I'd like to try _they/them_. Just as a trial! I'm not . . . I mean, I am _not_ ready to tell the whole world or anything. But maybe . . . do you think you could try calling me _they_? Just when we're alone together?"

Caela burst out laughing. "No!"

Carl was brought up short. But . . . ? Caela wouldn't . . . ? _What_ . . . ?

They must have looked dreadful because Caela schooled her features into kindness and slipped her hand into theirs. "Sweetie. That is _not_ how pronouns work. Have I ever called you _he_ or _him_ when I'm talking to you? _Ever_? When it's just the two of us, I'm _me_ and you're_ you_ and the other way around. The third person is only for when you're talking about a _third_ person."

"Oh." Carl had not considered that. They definitely weren't ready for a third person.

Caela was still fizzing, her emerald eyes flashing as she asked, "What about . . . _shopping_?"

"Shopping?"

"Yeah! Shopping! If we go to a shop or a restaurant where nobody knows us, I could call you _they_ when I'm talking to the server. Or . . . _Ooo! Ooo!_ What if I call you _they_ when I'm talking to my mum? She doesn't know anyone you know except me."

That sounded alright. It would be nice to know that someone out in the world was using their pronouns correctly, even if Carl never heard them.

"I think that would be good . . ." Carl said, though Caela was only paying partial attention. She already had her phone out.

_Hi Mum_, she texted, narrating aloud as she typed. _I'm going to an '80s-themed Halloween party tonight with my friend Carl. I'm a Lisa Frank unicorn and they're a leopard._

She scooted over on the bed and gestured for Carl to join her for a selfie.

"Will you send that to me?" Carl asked as the message went flying off to New Brunswick.

"Done and done."

Carl's phone buzzed. It took only a few clicks to set the picture as their new lock screen.

"Too cutesy?" they asked, turning the phone toward Caela.

"Extremely. Do you like it?"

The smile unfurled across Carl's gleaming face until it matched Caela's. "Yeah. I really do."

"Good. You are perfect and glorious and extremely hot and there won't be a single blank on your dance card."

"I'm pretty sure that's not how it works anymore."

"True! No need to plan. Just seize the opportunity when it comes along!"

Seize the opportunity. Just like that! Carl checked the photo again and found the blue-eyed person looking back with an expression of delighted anticipation on their painted face. They were ready.


	22. Halloween

Shoutout to everyone in the US who is marching, donating, organizing, and calling their elected officials to protest police violence. Please know that I'm doing my bit. You're all doing amazing work. Keep up the pressure. Thanks also to anyone in other countries who is marching in solidarity. #BlackLivesMatter #EndPoliceBrutality

* * *

**Halloween**

* * *

Jem had been extreeeeeeeeeeemly patient. According to the ticket, the Cooper Terrace Halloween party started at 9:00 and he had neither volunteered to help set up nor arrived at 9:01. It was a struggle.

"You can't make an entrance if you're already there," Joy had told him. She had a point.

Instead, Jem had busied himself finessing the details of his costume. The silver-glitter earrings were too heavy and kept slipping from their clips. Jem had briefly considered piercing his ears, but apparently you had to wear dinky little studs for weeks and weeks and he didn't have that sort of time. He resigned himself to losing them on the dance floor. After all, the first impression was the main thing.

That seemed well in hand. Auntie Phil had encouraged him to slash her hideous old bridesmaid's dress to the thigh, claiming she'd have done it herself long ago if she'd had the gumption. With the pink wig and the makeup adorning his own natural height, Jem was confident that he'd draw plenty of eyes. Hopefully the ones he was angling for.

His phone buzzed.

Zach: _Do you know if we have any spare stethoscopes?_

Jem gritted his teeth. Honestly, Zach was a fully-qualified paramedic and perfectly capable of leading a shift without Jem's input. Still, Halloween was a busy night and a little help never went amiss.

_Look in the second cabinet from the door_, Jem typed. _There should be a plastic container with a blue top behind the extra gloves._

By the time Zach texted _Thanks! _it was 9:02 and Jem felt as if his apartment were shrinking by the second. He sent a quick selfie to Joy and locked up, glad to be moving at last. It was a relief to launch out into the crisp, cool evening, eating up the few blocks to Jerry's place with long, purposeful strides.

The _principal business streets of Kingsport_ were crowded with people, some in costume, some not, and quite a few not easily sorted into either category. More than a few pointed Jem out to their companions, but he merely saluted them cheerfully and hurried on.*

It had not occurred to Jem that Jerry mightn't be ready a quarter hour before their appointed meeting time. It would have been a worry wasted in any case. A slight, black-clad swordsman was standing by the bushes in front of a shabby rooming house, scanning passersby with an expression of anticipation.

Jem grinned.

"And what are you supposed to be?" he asked before Jerry recognized him.

"Holy cats!" Jerry yelped, clapping one black glove to his chest.

Jem struck a pose. "It's good, right?"

"It's . . . something alright."

"What about you? Some kind of ninja?"

Jerry adjusted his headscarf and tugged a black eyemask into place. "_You guessed wrong_."**

Jem tumbled that one around in his brain for a bit before the reference slid into place. "I know! You're from that movie with André the Giant . . . no, don't tell me, I know this one . . . _The Princess Bride_! You're the pirate guy."

Jerry made a sweeping bow. "The Dread Pirate Roberts at your service."

"Oh, man. My mum loves that movie!"

"My step-mother does, too. I think she and Una have watched it a hundred times. Plus, I already had black clothes, so I just had to do the accessories."

Jem agreed that Jerry had done stellar work. The costume suited him, even if it didn't exactly scream "'80s" at first glance. He'd surely explain it to anyone who asked.

All the way to Cooper Hall, the pair of them chatted brightly. Jerry shared a picture of Bruce dressed as what Jem could only assume was the most current version of velociraptor, which had rather more feathers than he remembered.

When they reached the building, they could hear the music four floors up. Not too early, then. Good. The elevator was out of service again, so they climbed the stairs and handed their tickets to Shelby at the ticket table. Jem complimented her vivid aerobic instructor ensemble and she dimpled and asked him to save her a dance.

"Friend of yours?" Jerry asked as they went in through an open common room to the terrace.

"Who? Shelby? No, we just parked next to one another on move-in day. Why?"

Jerry gave him a quizzical look, but Jem didn't really have time to puzzle over it. They were finally here! Colored lights hung from the higher floors overlooking the terrace and music pulsed from the windows of the suite near the dance floor floor. The dancers were still a bit sparse, but obviously enthusiastic. Jem's twitchy leg caught the beat and he couldn't wait a moment longer.

"I'm going to dance. You coming, Roberts?"

"Not likely. Say hi to Faith for me, though."

"Who?" Jem asked innocently.

Jerry snorted. He raised a black-gloved hand and pointed toward the dance floor. As if Jem hadn't seen her right away. Golden and laughing, with bangles clattering on her wrists as she sang along on the top of her lungs, Faith Meredith was having all the fun the singer was wishing for.

Jem checked to make sure his earrings were in place and dove in.

* * *

By the time the fifth person asked whether she realized it was supposed to be an '80s party, Nan had formed a sadly diminished opinion of her fellow Redmond students. It wasn't exactly surprising that her peers had never seen _Labyrinth_, but they were awfully free about expressing their ignorance.

Nan had _dressed with more than usual care_, wreathing her dark hair with silver and embellishing a white dress with iridescent cellophane until the puffed sleeves threatened to take on a life of their own. Di had offered her ghost-busting services if they didn't behave themselves, but Faith had assured her that she had nailed Sarah's masquerade look down to the chandelier earrings. In thanks, Nan had stuck her tongue out at her sister and helped Faith crimp her hair. She'd done a good job of that, if she did say so herself. No one would doubt that Faith had understood the theme, with her shredded skirts and piled-on beads and careless smears of neon makeup. By the look of things, she was having a blast dancing to the bright, synthy music, rattling her bangles and getting up on a bench even though it was far too early to be properly drunk yet. Jem was over there, too, whooping his appreciation along with the other dancers.

The party seemed to be a great success. The tickets ensured that the crowd remained within the dictates of the fire code while still filling the terrace to a concentration that qualified as revelry. The music was loud enough for dancing, but not so loud that it blotted out conversation.

Nan was not particularly interested in joining the crush herself, but she did love to watch the people and see what they had come up with for costumes. Some were comprehensible at a glance — the Smurfs, the Ninja Turtles, the ambitious soul who had encased herself in a giant cardboard Rubik's Cube — while others required more interpretation. A girl in a stiff-shouldered pastel suit and pearls might be Princess Diana, while a boy in a shaggy wig seemed to going for Generic '80s Dude. Nan found her eye lingering on a blaster-wielding Han Solo and wondering what Nerfherder was up to right now, this very minute. It was silly. For all Nan knew, Nerfherder might not celebrate Halloween at all, or they might be a suburban fifty-year-old waiting for their teenage kids to come home from a party, or they might live in Australia where it was already November. Really, the only concrete thing she knew about Nerfherder was that they were an engaging correspondent.

Nan shook herself out of her reverie. This was a party and she should be enjoying it, not passing on real fun in favor of daydreams. Another look at the roiling dance floor decided her against it for good, but a drink would be alright.

At the drinks table, Nan found that the boys in the suite next door had concocted an orange punch of indeterminate ingredients and asked for a beer instead. At least it been manufactured in a regulated facility and she could get it directly from the keg.

"Hey, Nan!" said a cheerful voice from a lofty height. "You're that girl from that Bowie movie, right?"

Nan looked up to find Ari towering over her in a basketball jersey marked "Harlem Globetrotters." She had a basketball balanced against her hip and teeny red-and-white striped shorts. Nan had always liked Ari, who was a comfortable sort of person with, apparently, better taste in entertainment than the common run of Redmond student.

"I am, thank you," Nan said with satisfaction. "Are the Globetrotters the ones who do all those fancy tricks?"

"Yep. When they're not solving mysteries with Scooby Doo."

Nan didn't know much about Scooby Doo, so she asked after the Redstockings prospects in the upcoming season. It wasn't that she cared a great deal about basketball either, but it was good manners to show interest in other people's hobbies, and they passed a few pleasant minutes catching up. Nan was reminded that though she had never been close with Ari, she had certainly never dreaded the sight of her, which was more than she could say about certain people who would remain nameless.

_Speak of the devil_, Nan thought as a shriek of familiar laughter announced the imminent arrival of less congenial company.

If she were being uncharitable, Nan would have noted that Delilah's blue ghost getup was technically from the recent Ghostbusters reboot, rather than the '80s. Since she was not, she merely wished that Delilah would end the night trapped in a proton pack.

"So _this_ is the famous Ari," Delilah said over-sweetly when Di had introduced her. "I had no idea you were so _tall_!"

It was a skill, really, to make such a tiresome observation sound like an insult. Nan fixed a smile on her face and devoted her attention to selecting the precise adjectives to describe Delilah's inimitable simper.

"Nice to meet you," Ari said uncertainly.

"Yes, it is," Delilah agreed.

Di looked Ari up and down appreciatively. "You look great! Show Nan that spinny trick you can do."

Ari obliged her by balancing the basketball on her index finger and spinning it for three full seconds. She might have gone on longer, if Delilah had not grabbed Di's hand and pushed past, knocking Ari's arm.

"So nice to meet you," Delilah smiled as she pulled Di along. "Excuse us, we were on our way to get drinks."

Di gave an apologetic wave but did not resist. Ari caught her ball and stared after them, frowning.

"Don't get me started," Nan said. "_I don't know what has got into Di . . . that girl seems to have bewitched her_."***

"Is she always like that?"

"Usually worse."

Ari grimaced but did not press for details. She made her excuses, leaving Nan to rustle along through the crowd. It was thicker now, with the party in full swing. Nan did her best not to sweep people with her skirts, but was not notably successful. By the time she reached the railing overlooking the street, Nan was rumpled and jostled and slightly beer-stained. At least it was a quieter here, away from the music.

There was only one spot left at the rail, beside a masked man in black. Black gloves, black boots, black kerchief, a wooden-dowel sword but no hat . . . Nan hoped that she was puzzling this one out correctly. She smiled with secret delight, poised on the brink of discovering a kindred spirit.

"_You're the Dread Pirate Roberts_," she said. "_Admit it_."

"_With pride_," quoted the black-clad figure. He turned to face her, but stopped with a jolt when their eyes met. "Nan?"

Nan recoiled. _Oh, perfect._

"Uh . . . you're right," Jerry said, possibly for the first time ever. "I'm the Dread Pirate Roberts. And you're . . ."

"Not Buttercup," Nan said too sharply.

Jerry looked nearly as wrongfooted as Nan felt, and she might have mustered up some pity if it had been anyone else. But this was Jerry Meredith, who had spent their last Law and Society seminar arguing that Bill C-16 was a threat to freedom of speech. He'd even had the gall to say that Jordan Peterson — _Jordan Peterson!_ — had a good point when it came to the alleged dangers of government-compelled speech.

"It's completely unreasonable for the government to force people to speak in a certain way," Jerry had argued. "If Bill C-16 becomes law, people who refuse to use made-up pronouns could prosecuted for hate crimes, even if it's against their deeply held beliefs."

Nan, rigid with outrage, had protested that this wasn't what the bill said at all, but Jerry defended his corner with maddening stubbornness. If the government discovered a right to compel speech in one area, he argued, it would certainly expand its reach. Nan had been coming up with belated retorts to that all week, but too late. By the end of class, Jerry had compounded his offense by winning a few converts to his cause.

"You're not going to tell me who you are?" Jerry asked from behind his mask.

"I think not," Nan sniffed. "Compelled speech and all that."

"You're the one who started talking to me . . ."

"A mistake, I assure you." She turned on her heel to go, but Jerry _laid a detaining hand on her arm._

"Wait, Nan," he said. "_Can't we be friends_?"

Nan shook off his hand and rubbed the place where it had been. If she had been ill-disposed toward him before, she certainly was not persuaded by this intrusion upon her person.

_"No," she said coldly._

"Come on, Nan. This is silly. Can't we just agree to disagree in class and be friends otherwise?"

"_I'll never be friends with you_," she shot back. "Nobody could, knowing all the rubbish you call _deeply held beliefs_."

The dark eyes flashed behind the mask. "Really? As far as I can tell, you're the only one who has a problem."

Nan saw the opening and took it. "Does that mean you've told Jem your views on deporting undocumented immigrants? How did that go over?"

"Immigrants? What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about your reprehensible politics. You're welcome to your opinions, of course, but don't be surprised if they don't win you any friends."

"I don't understand why you hate me," Jerry flared. "I haven't done anything except have the temerity to disagree with you, and apparently that makes me a villain."

"It's not about disagreeing," Nan said with disdain. "It's about not associating with people who support racist, homophobic, misogynist . . ."

"That's not fair!" Jerry interrupted, the _angry color in his cheeks_ showing beneath his mask.

"Isn't it?"

"No! It's . . . ugh! Just forget it! You can think what you want."

"And_ you can die slowly, cut into a thousand pieces_."

Jerry blinked, evidently not recognizing the quotation. Nan made an exasperated noise in her throat and stalked off, not looking back.

* * *

John hated parties. They were so loud. So crowded. Every year, his parents threw a Christmas party that packed Ingleside with sparkle and chatter and toothy laughter, the merry crowd threatening to burst through the walls and onto the lawn. John dreaded the noise and the cheek-pinching aunts and the tedious inquiries about school. _No, this can't be Shirley! He's gotten so big! _When he was younger, John had retreated to his room as soon as his parents were sufficiently absorbed in their hosting duties; last year, he had just texted Wilkie to pick him up around the corner and split.

But Di had insisted, so here he was, putting in an appearance at the Cooper Terrace Halloween party before he headed over to the Crow's Nest for Wilkie's birthday. No quieter there, John thought with a grimace. The terrace swarmed with people in neon and spandex, their teased hair gathered into side-ponytails or slicked back into pseudo-mullets. All the suites had their doors open, and the one with the best speakers was blasting something with enough bass that John's teeth buzzed. Other people seemed to be enjoying it, though.

"What are you supposed to be?" Di yelled over the throbbing music. She wore khaki coveralls with thin horizontal stripes in a vivid shade of orange, along with fingerless leather gloves and a utility belt. No proton pack, but the Ghostbusters patch on her shoulder was clear enough.

"_What?_"

"Costume!" she asked, gesturing to John's obvious lack of one.

"I can't stay long!"

"Other plans?"

"_What?_"

"You're going somewhere else?"

"Yes!"

"Somewhere with no costumes?"

John didn't answer. He would rather melt through the floor than show up at Wilkie's party in costume, to be discussed and dissected and no doubt found ridiculous. Better to disappoint Di.

Delilah appeared at Di's shoulder, ethereal in bright blue gauze that suggested a ghost un-busted. She looked John up and down with a pitying little frown.

"Come on," Di said, tugging at his elbow. "I'll find you something." With a quick word of reassurance to Delilah, she steered him off toward her suite. They wove through the press of bodies into the less crowded common room. When Di's bedroom door shut behind them, John exhaled with relief.

"Let me see," Di was muttering as she pawed through the alarming miscellany spilling from her closet. She held up a plaid shirt and muttered, "Cowboy? . . . no . . ."

"I really don't need a costume," John protested.

"Yes, you do. Come on. Would it kill you to participate for once?"

John did feel guilty. Di was always inviting him to Pride House events and he'd never shown his face, not even once. It wasn't that he didn't, you know, support the cause or whatever, but the whole Pride House vibe made him itch. Smiley-face nametags and earnest workshops and consciousness-raising icebreakers . . . no, thanks.

"Alright," he said. "It's just . . . I have to go somewhere else after this . . ."

Di beamed at him, looking for all the world like Mum in spite of the blue hair. "Got it. No makeup, no glitter, and the less fuss the better. Right?"

"Right."

Di considered, eyeing him. "What have you got on under that?"

John grimaced. "I'm not going out there in my underwear."

"I just meant under your shirt!" Di laughed. "Thanks for the mental image, though. Are you wearing an undershirt?"

"Yes . . . ?"

"Good!" Di went up on her toes, feeling around on the top shelf as accessories shifted and fell around her. "Take your shirt off, then."

John complied, shrugging out of his jacket and draping his shirt over the back of Di's desk chair. The white undershirt didn't need smoothing, but he smoothed it anyway.

"Aha!" Di emerged with something clutched in her fist that turned out to be a pair of aviator sunglasses. She handed them over, squeeing with delight when John slipped them onto his face. "You're too tall to be Tom Cruise," she said, "but I don't think anyone will complain."

John stooped to study his reflection in the mirror on the back of her door. He was going to freeze out there in just his undershirt. Good thing he didn't mean to stay long. "What am I supposed to be?"

Di seemed genuinely confused. "You've seen _Top Gun_."

"_Top Gun_?"

"Yeah. Tom Cruise? Fighter jets? Kelly McGillis in that leather jacket?"

"Sorry, I don't know."

"That's impossible! It's one of Uncle Davy's favorites. He used to make us watch it every time we went to . . ." Di seemed to realize what she was saying and went a little pink under her freckles. "Anyway, I think you'd like it."

"If you say so."

"I do. Now, do try to have fun before you sneak off, won't you? If anyone calls you Maverick, just call them Goose or say something walkie-talkie-ish."

"Roger."

Back out on the terrace, John headed for a denser patch of crowd near one wall. Getting a drink would give him something to do rather than just standing around waiting for someone to ask him about geese. He sidestepped a Beetlejuice and a Richard Simmons who had obviously been to the drinks table a few times already, pushing through until he was close enough to swipe a red plastic cup.

Wading back into the chaos, John spotted Nan in a dress that reminded him of the good witch from the Wizard of Oz, except in white instead of pink. She was looking pissed about something, but she acknowledged John's raised hand with a wave and kept moving. Excellent. Both of his sisters could testify that he had, in fact, attended their party. All he had to do was finish one beer, catch Jem's eye, and he could be on his way. If he hurried, he might not even be late.

John had just raised the cup to his lips when someone clapped him on the shoulder hard enough to slosh foam up his nose.

"There you are!" grinned Ken. He was wearing a Wayne Gretzky throwback jersey over shoulder pads, though he'd left his skates at home. "Di mentioned you were supposed to show up."

"_What?_"

Ken waved off the irrelevant small talk. "Having fun?"

John grimaced and wiped his face with the back of his hand. "I can't stay long. Just gotta say hi to Jem."

"He's over there," Ken said, pointing.

John looked over the heads of the dancers. "Where?"

"There!"

Once John found him, there couldn't be any mistake. Tight pink dress, glam rock wig, and was that Faith Meredith matching him jump for jump? The sight surprised an incredulous cough out of John. Well, Jem never did anything by half measures, did he?

"Come on!" Ken shouted, nudging John toward the dancers.

"No. He's busy!"

"Well then just come dance!"

"No. You go."

Ken shrugged but didn't pester. John watched him shimmy in among the dancers, half a head taller than most. The costumes blurred together as people flowed around one another, visible one minute, gone the next.

A brief gap showed that Ken had sidled up to a long-limbed girl dressed in a bright pink leotard and yellow leggings. Wasn't that what's-her-name? Carl's friend? Yes, John thought so, though her hair was a dozen different colors and her makeup so bright that it was difficult to be sure. Ken appeared to like what he saw. He always made things look easy, John thought ruefully as Ken made an inquiring gesture and was rewarded with the girl's full attention. So smooth, with that ready smile and laughing voice and, quite soon, a hand on the girl's lycra-covered hip. You miss all the shots you don't take, Ken liked to say. Well, maybe that's why John played defense.

Ken pulled the girl — Kylie? Keira? — closer, both of them laughing. As they moved, John caught a glimpse of bright blue behind them and caught his breath.

That couldn't really be Carl dancing, could it?

When John thought of Carl at all, it was as a skittish and slightly awkward presence on the periphery of his daily routine, not as a graceful, laughing swirl of color at the center of an ecstatic crowd. John could not have said whether it was the fluid movement or the unselfconscious expression of joyful abandon that made him forget his drink and gawp, but he was still only half convinced that the captivating dancer moving in and out of sight was his timid, apologetic roommate.

John was still rooted to the spot two songs later, when Carl said something in the rainbow-haired girl's ear — Katie?— and began pushing through the crowd toward the drinks table.

_Mayday! Mayday!_

John attempted to slink out of the way, but he had stood still so long that packs of revelers had hemmed him in on every side. He had one wild flash of hope that perhaps the glasses were dark enough to disguise him. No dice.

"John?"

Carl's eyes were impossibly huge. Actually impossible. What the . . . ? John stared a beat too long before coughing up an artless, "Hey."

Carl was sweat-damp and flushed under the rainbow makeup, in spite of the breeze that was raising gooseflesh on John's arms. Some sort of cat, John thought, noting the fuzzy ears and leopard spots, though the overall impression was of bright, glowing color.

"I didn't know you were coming to this," Carl said, smiling.

"Just stopping by."

"I'm glad you did. Did you see . . ."

Carl gestured toward the dancers, turning so that John couldn't see the shape of the words anymore. The music throbbed, bodies pressed, and Carl turned back, still smiling, expecting some sort of answer.

John had to say something, so he said, "Sorry, I don't know."

The flicker of confusion across Carl's painted face told John that this was off the mark, but everything was too loud and too close and he couldn't even hear his own thoughts let alone anyone's words. He certainly didn't hear Carl say, "Do you want to dance?" though he did see the request form on purple lips.

Dance? John had no desire to humiliate himself. He'd be stiff and self-conscious, and they'd all look at him, which would be bad enough, or laugh at him, which would be unimaginably worse.

"I don't dance," he said.

"You could start," Carl said, with a bit more backbone than John had expected. Something was definitely different and it wasn't just the eyes.

John groped for a reply and found that there was nothing to hand — no explanation, no excuse, no words at all. He was used to being tongue-tied when called on in class or when he was expected to chime in with his family's patter, but he didn't usually regret it. Plenty of people thought that he was dim-witted or just plain rude, but John mostly just shrugged and kept to himself or sought the company of people who didn't _try to make him talk or badger him with chatter_.**** He wished he could speak now.

The smile had faded from Carl's face. The makeup made it a bit difficult to read the new expression, but John split his bet between "disappointed" and "annoyed."

"Ok. See you later, I guess," Carl said. If there was any more than that, John didn't catch it because Carl turned toward the refreshments.

_Stupid. Stupid._

John was just about to say, "Wait," and would have, if he could have spit it out in time. Too late. He was preempted by a sudden drop in the happy hum of the party. The music still played, but a hush was spreading through the crowd on the quieter end of the terrace. People backed away from something at the center of a widening clearing and John had just enough time to recall junior high school fights — the chanting, the circling, the shocking sensation of crashing through a glass wall — before a sharp shriek resolved itself into sense.

"_Liar! Take it back, liar!_"

* * *

Notes:

*_Anne of the Island_, chapter 5: "Letters from Home"

**The various Jerry/Nan quotations are either from _Anne of Green Gables_, _Anne of Ingleside_, _Pride and Prejudice_, or _The Princess Bride_.

***In _Anne of Ingleside_, the line about Di being bewitched is Anne's and refers to Jenny Penny, but Di's tendency to fall for girls Nan doesn't like applies to both Delilah and Jenny.

****_Rilla of Ingleside_, chapter 3, "Moonlit Mirth"


	23. Good Riddance

**Good Riddance**

* * *

When John left the room, Di kicked herself. How stupid to bring up Avonlea like that! It wasn't like John had missed every single trip, but obviously he'd missed enough of them. Di had never really thought about it much when she was a kid, but it did seem odd in retrospect. Lately, she'd made a special effort to include John in Pride House events — to do right by him as a comrade as well as a sibling — but getting him to commit was like nailing jello to a wall. He'd shown up here, though. That was something. Di hoped he'd let himself have some fun.

The music rattling her window was calling Di back to the party. She hadn't even had a chance to dance with Delilah yet, but the night was still young.

Di checked her hair in the mirror and hoisted her proton pack onto her back. As she adjusted it, she felt the left strap tear away from the cardboard. Damn. She couldn't go out like that — the whole thing would rip off if anyone knocked against it.

Di rummaged in her desk drawer for duct tape, finding a safety pin instead. It poked through the cardboard well enough, but tore a gash when Di swung the pack back onto her shoulder. That would never hold. The duct tape must be around here somewhere.

She kicked aside a pile of Delilah's laundry, peered into the trash can, and felt around under the desk. After several minutes, the tape turned up in a rain boot under her bed. Di made quick work of the strap and reassembled her gear, adding the roll of tape to her utility belt just in case.

By this time, she'd been away from the party for several songs. Better get back soon or Delilah would sulk instead of dancing.

Back out on the terrace, Di climbed up on a bench to scan the crowd. She didn't see any telltale electric blue near the drinks, nor on the dance floor, where the DJ was letting the dancers catch their breath with a slower song.

_Once upon a time, I was falling in love, but now I'm only falling apart . . ._

Di was beginning to wonder whether Delilah might have stormed off in a huff after all when she spotted her on the opposite end of the terrace, away from the dancers. Delilah had her back turned, and was chatting with Sara and Ying. Di hoped they were being civil, rather than picking on Delilah as they always did. Wasn't it just last week they had dumped her expensive just-for-curls conditioner down the drain? Better get over there and make sure she was alright.

That was easier said than done. The volume lessened as Di moved further from the speakers, but the press of people did not. Gaps in the crowd proved to be blocked by benches or planters filling up with red plastic cups. When Di finally did reach Delilah's corner, she found her way blocked by a girl in an enormous Rubik's cube costume.

"Excuse me," Di said, but the girl went on laughing with her friends, oblivious. She was just about to try again when _she caught her own name_ in Delilah's voice.*

" . . . the way Di exaggerates . . ."

Di went rigid. She knew that tone very well. It was the tone Delilah used when she spoke of her estranged parents or her meddling roommates or any of the other myriad ways the world was set against her. But . . . _what?_

Instead of pushing past the Rubik's cube, Di hunkered down behind it and strained to listen.

" . . . _sooooo disappointed in Ingleside . . . the way Di has bragged . . . I expected a mansion . . . it's big enough_, I guess . . . only one floor!"

The Rubik's cube girl noticed Di hanging onto her and began to move, but Di shushed her. Very gently, she pushed at the costume, using the girl as a shield as she shuffled a few steps closer to the spot where Delilah was holding her audience rapt.

"_Did you see the china dogs?_" asked Ying.

_"They're nothing wonderful. They haven't even got hair. I told Di right on the spot I was disappointed."_

Di's breath caught. Delilah had been delighted with Gog and Magog. Hadn't she?

_"I'm sorry for Di," _Delilah went on. "Her whole family's nuts. I thought Thanksgiving would be a nice, cozy time to get to know them, but instead they went around inviting a dozen people they'd never even met before! They also have an old lady living out in their back garden. Di said Susan's like family, but I told her the whole setup is extremely weird. I don't know what her job is, but it certainly isn't cleaning or cooking. I had to pick up the slack the whole time I was there. Not that I minded, really, because their silver looked like it had never been cleaned before."

"They made you polish the silver?" Ying asked skeptically.

"Oh, yes. But they always make me work. Didn't I tell you how they made me bail out the cellar when their theatre flooded? I never even got a thank you note. They certainly didn't treat me like a guest this time either. Di's parents weren't even going to let me stay in her room, but I put my foot down and said, 'Do you treat all your children's partners this way, or just the lesbians?' and that shut them up."

"I thought they were supportive?" Sara said.

Delilah scoffed. "Oh, they pretend to be. It's all lovey-dovey on the outside, but they're all terribly two-faced. You should see how Nan pinches Di — _her arms are black and blue_! And the older sister doesn't even really need that wheelchair. I saw her get up and walk around! It's all a big act. They let Faith's sick little brother cough all over the food so I couldn't stand to eat a bite. And John threw a dish of cranberry sauce at me. _It ruined my dress but I don't care_. I told the Doctor he'd have to pay for it but he flat-out refused, so my parents sent me money for a new one. Di's jealous, of course, _but still I'm sorry for her._"

Di had heard enough. More than enough. Flushed with fury, she stepped out from the shelter of the Rubik's cube.

"You . . ." she said, pointing a trembling finger at Delilah. "You . . !" _Afterwards, she thought repentantly_ that she ought to have been able to find words for her outrage. _But she had been stung to the heart_ _and when your feelings are all stirred up you can't pick and choose your words._

"Di!" Delilah's lovely, traitorous face was the very picture of shock.

"Was any of it ever true?" Di growled. She was dimly aware that people around them were beginning to stare, but she didn't care. "Did Ying and Sara really steal your jewelry?"

"What?" Sara yelped.

"Did your parents really support your brother and then cut you off without a penny?"

Delilah's mouth was working in fishlike silence, while Ying said, "Wait, you have a brother?"

Bystanders were backing away now, forming a widening circle around the little group. Delilah's face had gone very pale under the blue makeup. "Di. Honey. I just meant that your family treats you awfully badly and they shouldn't . . ."

"Liar! Take it back, liar!"

* * *

Faith didn't hear the yelling right away. She was much too wrapped up in more immediate sensations: the scratch of pink acetate lace against her palms, the throbbing of her pulse in time with the slow dance, the pressure of broad hands on her hips.

She had first seen Jem Blythe from her vantage point atop a bench, where she was jangling her bangles and belting _Girls Just Wanna Have Fun. _She had glanced down and there he was, cotton-candy-colored and hooting his admiration from the midst of the crowd. One brief instant of eye contact closed a circuit and if Faith had been dancing before, she was flying after. Whenever she checked, Jem was still grinning up at her, cheering her on with shouts that sent little thrills of electricity spangling over her skin. Nothing about her workaday situation had changed, but the song on her lips wasn't _Girls Just Wanna Have Committed Relationships_. There were plenty of hours between now and Tuesday morning, and Faith meant to use them well.

_With Faith, to decide was to act_.** When the song was done, she hopped down from the bench and made a beeline for the unmistakeable streak of pink. She locked eyes with Jem at ten paces, watching his smile stretch closer to the limit with each step. The glitter earrings came off in her hands when she grabbed him by the ears and he laughed into her mouth when she kissed him.

"Well alright then," Jem said when Faith released him.

After that, things were a bit of a blur. Jem was unstoppered joy from the tips of his wig to the toes of his ridiculous, tape-covered Crocs, dancing with much more enthusiasm than grace. He kept Faith in a near-constant state of hilarity with his "moves," which borrowed freely and inexpertly from a wide variety of unlikely genres. There was the Charleston knee thing that really should not be done in such a short skirt, a truly terrible moonwalk, and a disco point that spelled the end of one of his shoulder seams. Faith had rarely had more fun.

Still, she was relieved when the DJ slowed things down, giving her a chance to catch her breath. Jem raised a questioning brow and she stepped into his arms, swaying together as the singer crooned about moons and eclipses and whatnot. Faith wasn't really sold on _forever's gonna start tonight_, but she was definitely starting to think about whether there weren't any better uses for their remaining stamina.

That's when Jem went tense under her hands. His head snapped up, all his attention focused on something Faith couldn't see or hear. She followed his gaze across the terrace and saw . . . she wasn't sure what. A disturbance of some sort. Then a shout cut through the fading music and Jem was off like a shot.

More shouting. Faith didn't catch the words, but she thought that it might be Di's voice, albeit raised to a pitch she had never heard before. Jem was cutting a broad swath through the crowd and Faith slipped into his wake, arriving at the edge of the clearing in time to hear Di yell,

"_There isn't one spark of sincerity in you! Don't you ever speak to me again as long as you live!_"

Faith noted Delilah seeming flustered and nervous, and two girls she recognized vaguely as Delilah's roommates exchanging appalled looks. Whatever had happened must have been quite the show.

Jem had not stopped among the spectators. Instead he sailed in to Di's side, holding an arm out in warning lest Delilah try to advance on her.

"Di?" he asked quietly.

"She . . . she . . ."

"It was just a misunderstanding!" Delilah cried, but Jem shushed her with pointed wave of the hand.

Faith caught Di's arm, which was trembling with either shock or fury, and interposed her own body between the two. Then Nan was there as well, tugging gently at Di's other arm and calling her away.

"Di!" Delilah called. "Please!"

Together, Faith and Nan steered a muttering Di through the crowd as people tripped over themselves to get out of the way. Behind them, Faith could hear Jem shouting, "Alright, alright, nothing to see here! Carry on!"

"Can I help?"

Faith was surprised to see John looming near the door to their suite, but Nan snapped, "Clear the common room, will you?"

They led Di to her room and shut the door while John evicted partygoers without ceremony. Nan settled her sister onto the bed and Faith drew the curtain in vain hopes that it might help muffle the noise.

"What happened?" Nan asked.

"She said . . . she said . . . Oh, Nan! I've been so stupid!"

Di _flung herself stormily against _Nan's_ shoulder _and wept. Her splotched, crumpled misery made Faith feel that she could have throttled Delilah quite cheerfully. Instead, she went hunting for tissues.

"It's alright," Nan crooned, stroking Di's hair. "Take your time."

Faith located the fugitive Kleenex in the crevice behind Di's desk and held it out to her. Di gulped, took a tissue, and blew her nose with emphasis.

_The whole story was sobbed out, somewhat disjointedly. _Faith had assumed that Delilah must have said something awful to break the charm so spectacularly, but even she was taken aback by some of the things Di repeated. Delilah had a go at _Carl_?

"_I'll never believe in anyone again!_" Di concluded fiercely.

"Now, now," Nan said soothingly. "Do you want me to slash her bike tires? Fill her shampoo with Nair? Hack her social media accounts?"

"I'll help!" Faith said.

Di hiccuped and blew her nose again. "Thanks. I just want her gone. Hand me that grocery bag?"

Di slid off the bed and began shoving laundry and books into the bag. She tore a charger out of the wall and tossed in a hairbrush and an open box of granola bars. No wonder Di's room was such a disaster zone if Delilah had brought down all this junk.

When the bag was overfull, Faith seized it. "I'll just take this out, alright?" She left the sisters kneeling on the floor in the wreckage of Di's room, with the party still shrieking outside.

The common room was empty except for Jem and John and the detritus of an abandoned party.

"Is she ok?" Jem asked.

"She's fine. Angry, but fine."

"What happened?"

Faith summarized, ending with a fervent wish that Delilah would never darken their door again.

"She already tried," Jem said. "Just after you went in. But we sent her packing. Jerry and Carl were here, too. I sent Carl back to the party, but Jerry went off to find some trash bags." He gestured at the common room, which was cluttered with cups and bits of cast-off costume. Now that Faith was paying more attention, the floor under her feet was unpleasantly sticky.

John cleared his throat. "Is there anything I should be doing?"

"Sure." Faith passed him the grocery bag. "Take this crap up to the sixth floor, will you? Suite 619."

John held the bag as if it might explode. "I might head out after, ok?"

When the door clicked shut behind him, Faith was alone with Jem and the muffled music and the pounding of her own heart.

Jem pulled off his wig, revealing sweat-damp curls plastered to his head. A smear of glitter on his cheek made Faith wonder if he had been wearing it all along, or if a bit of hers had rubbed off. He gave her twist of a smile, and if she hadn't had bountiful evidence to the contrary, she might have thought he was a little shy.

"Hey."

"Hey."

"Is Di really ok?"

"She will be. Good riddance, I say."

Jem snorted. "Has Nan managed to avoid saying, 'I told you so?'"

"So far, so good. The effort might kill her, though."

Jem chuckled and ran a hand through his hair, dislodging a few short curls.

"So . . . uh . . . out there . . . I was having fun. Before all this, I mean."

"Yeah," Faith agreed. "Me, too."

So much fun. God, he was a snack. Maybe that was just two months of self-enforced celibacy talking, but Faith didn't think so. She honestly, genuinely liked Jem Blythe. That was probably going to make this rough.

"Can I take you out sometime?" he was asking. "Dinner?"

Faith grimaced. "Look, I had a really good time. But with work and school and basketball, I don't get a night off very often. I'm not looking to date anyone right now."

"Oh. Ok." There was a note of confusion in his voice, along with a tinge of disappointment, but he didn't press or argue. "Well, if you ever change your mind, let me know."

Faith had already changed her mind. Damn, what was wrong with her?

"I still have tonight," she blurted. "We could keep dancing. Or . . ." She gave her own bedroom door a meaningful look.

Jem gave that a rueful chortle, but shook his head. "Better not. Seems insensitive to the bereaved."

Faith laughed, too. Somehow the laughing turned into a touch and then the touch turned into a kiss and before Faith had time to think twice, she had Jem pushed up against the wall.

The boy knew his way around a kiss, she'd give him that. He was open and eager, matching her tempo and pushing just a bit further. Faith liked the solid pressure of his hand on the small of her back, and she liked the way he smiled when he drew back for breath. The smile stretched when she brushed her fingertips over the hem of his skirt, which had rucked up high enough that it wasn't leaving very much to the imagination. His breath hitched and it was becoming difficult to remember why they were still in the common room, when her bedroom was just steps away.

Someone knocked at the hall door. Faith and Jem broke apart with a mutual gasp. Holy fuck, if Delilah was coming down here to whine, Faith was going to murder her on the spot.

"It's Jerry!" Jerry called from the hall.

Faith looked at Jem, mussed and open-mouthed and trying unsuccessfully to adjust his clothing, and laughed aloud.

"I'll get it," she snorted. "You can hide in the bathroom if you like."

He took her up on that, disappearing into the bathroom as Faith went for the door.

"I found the trash bags!" Jerry announced, stepping into the suite. "Oh. Did Jem and John leave?"

"John did," Faith said, biting the inside of her cheek. "Jem's just powdering his nose." She jerked a thumb at the bathroom door and Jerry nodded sagely.

They began to pick up the mess, tossing garbage into the bags while Faith caught Jerry up on the outlines of Di's troubles. Jem joined them a few minutes later, looking as presentable as it was possible to look in the shredded remains of a terrifically ugly dress. There was nothing objectively funny about eye contact, but one look at the wicked spark in those hazel eyes had Faith choking down another round of laughter.

They worked together until the common room was passable, if not precisely clean. The party was still in full swing outside, but Faith was not particularly interested in returning. It had also not escaped her notice that Jerry kept darting nervous glances toward Di's door.

"I'll take it from here," she said. "Thanks for your help."

Jem shot a look at Jerry, seemed to consider something, and said, "Let me know if Nan and Di need anything, ok."

"Sure. Just . . . uh . . . I don't think I have your number."

Jem held out his hand for her phone, then typed in a contact with entirely too many letters. How many Jems did he think she knew?

When Jem and Jerry had said their goodbyes and left with instructions to give Di their best, Faith opened her contacts. The new one was filed under N for "No Strings Attached."

* * *

By the time John reached the Crow's Nest, he was thoroughly sick of parties. He wanted nothing more than to go back to the dorm, crawl into bed, and pull his quilt over his head until everyone else passed out and he could have the morning to himself.

But he might run into Carl there. That would be awkward. Nothing had happened between them, not really, and there was no reason John should be feeling as if he'd fumbled the puck. Maybe he should just go to Ingleside and hunker down for a few days.

But it was Wilkie's birthday and he was already unforgivably late.

There was a line at the club, but John gave his name to the security guard and waited while he checked the list. Most of the people in line were in costumes of the Sexy Fill-In-The-Blank variety, though it wasn't always easy to tell where that ended and normal club wear began. John was aware that he was conspicuous — not to mention freezing — in his plain white t-shirt, but there hadn't really been a chance to nip into Di's room for his clothes. He ran a finger over the sunglasses hooked on his pocket, but left them where they were. He didn't know enough about _Top Gun_ to field half-heard jests about it in front of Wilkie's friends.

Security waved John in and pointed him toward the balcony, where private tables overlooked the dance floor. Colored lights flashed, music throbbed. John concentrated all his attention on the narrow, spiraling stairs, putting one foot solidly in front of the other and trying to block out everything else.

Wilkie's party had taken the big circular booth in the corner. The table was littered with glasses and the seats crammed to capacity with Wilkie's cronies, most of whom John knew by sight if not by name. There was the tall blonde who thought playing poker for money was boring, and Marcus, the old boarding school chum who flew in from London from time to time, and Tyler Hallett, who currently had his tongue halfway down Wilkie's throat.

John took a steadying breath.

"Look who decided to turn up!" called Marcus, sloshing a glass of champagne in John's direction. Heads turned and somebody elbowed Tyler, who slunk back looking a bit sheepish.

John was only watching Wilkie. Of course it didn't matter to him who Wilkie kissed. They didn't have that sort of relationship, a fact which had been made very clear to him on a number of occasions. Whatever, it was fine.

What did matter was the way that Wilkie was looking at him right now. His amber eyes glittered with a fury that was not softened by the outward shape of a smile on his lips. Just because Wilkie liked to keep his options open didn't mean he'd tolerate being anyone's second choice. Yes, it definitely would have been better to go straight home or perhaps to skip town altogether.

The blonde man stood, offering John his place on the edge of the bench, but Wilkie called him back. "Let him stand," he said crisply. "Wouldn't want to to tie him down when he obviously has better places to be."

Several of the other guests exchanged nervous glances and Tyler Hallet seemed ready to crawl under the table, though none of this was his fault. John had known he was cutting things close, and he had still stayed at the party far too long. He might have stayed even longer if Di's commotion hadn't stopped him from saying, _Wait, no, I mean yes, I could try_.

Well, now he'd fucked up twice instead of just once and didn't have the least idea of how to put any of it right. Fuck it.

Without bothering to make his excuses, John turned on his heel and walked out.

* * *

Notes:

*Various quotations throughout this chapter are from Di and Delilah's breakup in _Anne of Ingleside_, chapter 38.

**_Rainbow Valley_, chapter 16, "Tit for Tat"

Special hello and thank you to the KatherineWithAC and the Guest reviewers I can't thank in person. Hello! Thank you so much for your thoughts and suggestions! I'm so glad to have you around and I am taking your feedback to heart.

(Note: There was a movie reboot of _Jem and the Holograms_ in 2015 and rebooted comic that ran from 2015-7, so I'm assuming the kids know about it through those, rather than through the original '80s cartoon.)


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